Between Heartbeats
by ellameno
Summary: She may belong between his heartbeats but, in the wake of the explosion, hers are the only ones that matter. Her life hangs in the balance, and her friends wait helplessly by her side. Deleted scenes from Aftermath. IF
1. The Sound of Madness

**AAAAAAAAAND I HAVE RETURNED!**

 **Fashionably late, of course, but better late than never, I always say. Literally always.**

 **I was hoping to have this all finished for you guys before Thanksgiving 2017, but, having been in the middle of the semester from HELL, it didn't happen. I'm hoping to have updates on this one for you, if not every week, every other week, but I'm not going to try and give you a specific timeline because, in typical ellameno fashion, I'll probably miss the bar, haha.**

 **So, remember that little break in the last chapter between finding Ingrid and her revealing herself to Wade at the precinct? This is what happened in between. Please read, review, let me know what you think, and if you find any errors please point them out! I'm so excited to hear from you!**

 **And, by the way, happy new year. I hope.**

 **xXxXx**

Between Heartbeats

Chapter One: The Sound of Madness

Nathan Third had never been a reckless driver: his hands were always at ten and two, he never drove more than five miles over the speed limit, and he _never_ used his phone when he was behind the wheel. There wasn't a blemish on his driving record, and for good reasons. But, when he received the breaking news alert on his phone, he immediately abandoned his things in the professor's lounge – at a run – and drove to the school as fast as he could.

At first, he was numb. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to panic or stay calm.

Panic. _Of course I should panic._

He reached for his phone in his back pocket as he sped onto the freeway towards X High School, ignoring the angry car horns he received for doing so, and held down the shortcut to dial is youngest daughter.

"Dear God, please have her answer," he begged, tearfully, as he brought the phone to his ear and listened to it ring. The adrenaline in his chest spread farther throughout his body with each ring that passed, and his heart plummeted when he heard Ingrid's automated voice,

" _Hey, it's Ingrid Third, I'm not_ —"

Tears cascaded down his face, and he swore – something he rarely did – before hanging up and dialing again. "Please, god, no, please, please…"

His heart was nearly bursting from his chest by the time he finally flew past his house towards the apparently burning school. God, was all of this actually happening? Could there really have been a _bomb_ of all things at his daughter's school?

The sirens, red and blue lights, and clouds of smoke he saw as he got closer to the school answered that question for him.

He was still five blocks away when the line of cars stopped him. They had all been stopped in the middle of the race to retrieve to their children by police-enforced barricades. Nathan opened his car door only to be bombarded by the sound of madness – a cacophony of wailing sirens, dueling car horns, and the distant roar of firehoses – and the smoking stench of destruction, but he pushed his way through the growing, clamoring crowd towards the barricades where uniformed officers were trying to keep everyone back.

"Everyone, please get back in your vehicles!" a bearded officer, with his arms outstretched, shouted over the call of the crowd. Parents shouted in his face, and he flinched away, but continued to speak over them. "For your own safety—"

"My daughter!" Nathan interrupted, pushing in between two mothers to stand in front of him. "Please, my daughter—"

The officer shook his head at him and held up a hand. "I'm sorry, sir, I know you're worried, but I can't help you. Now please, step back—"

"No, you don't understand!" Nathan argued, a mixture of determination and fury stirring in his chest as the officer rolled his eyes. "She's a safety patrol officer here at the school, I just need to know if you've seen her helping with the evacuation or something, just anything—"

The officer standing next to him, a woman, stepped towards him. "Wait, you said an officer?"

Hope sparked in Nathan's chest, and he stepped around another worried parent towards the woman. "Yes, a junior!" He fought the burning in his eyes as he began to describe his youngest daughter. "She's got black hair, green eyes, and pale skin," he paused to swallow the lump in his throat, and she nodded at him to continue.

"What's her name?" she asked.

"Ingrid Third."

Her eyes widened, along with those of the brute officer beside her, before she nodded and pointed behind him. "You need to get to the hospital, sir."

His stomach plummeted to his feet. "W-What?" he gasped. His hand flew up to his chest in a desperate attempt to catch his breath.

"I can't tell you for sure how she is," the woman continued, holding her hands out towards him in a meek effort to reassure him, "but her name was one of the few we heard over the radio being taken to St. Cloud's Trauma Center, along with some other patrol officers," she explained. Nathan's head swam with so many questions, he had to put a hand over his eyes. "Apparently, they went back into the school to help get people out and things went south, but that's all I can tell you, sir!"

Only one thing mattered. "But she was alive when they left?" He nearly choked at the end of his question, simultaneously dreading yet desperate to hear the answer.

She nodded at him, vigorously, a few strands of blonde hair falling from under her cap. "As far as we know, yes, but go find out for yourself! It hasn't been long!"

Relief flooded through him, and he nodded his thanks before sprinting back to his car. _She's alive_ , he told himself, throwing his car in reverse, and pressing his hand relentlessly on the horn as he started to back out of the crowd. _She's alive_.

What should have been a thirty-minute journey to St. Cloud Trauma Center, Nathan turned into a twenty-two minute one, screeching to a stop in the first available parking spot he could find. He sprinted from his car, barely hesitating to lock it, and burst through the emergency doors to come face-to-face with even more chaos. The emergency room cots were occupied mostly by teenagers he vaguely recognized, most of whom were covered in ash, bandages, and were crying, or had been at one point. But, to his dismay, the first person he recognized wasn't his daughter… it was her best friend.

A doctor in a scrub gown had stepped away to reveal the African American teenager lying on a bed across the room. His shirt had been removed and heart monitors had been placed in various spots around his chest. There was a freshly placed bandage on his right arm and the doctors removed the mask from his face, but brought over a tray with a tube on it. He ran over.

"Neil!" he exclaimed, and the boy's head shot over to him. Only Ingrid's father called him that. The doctor holding the tube in her hand held up her arm to keep the worried man at a distance.

"Sir, you need to step back," she ordered calmly.

Fillmore waved her off. "No, wait a second," he rasped and motioned him over. "Have you seen her?" he asked, but Nathan shook his head.

"No, the officers at the school just told me she was here and I came right away. Where is she? Is she hurt?" he asked in a hurry, but Fillmore's only response was a deep, wheezing cough into his fist.

"Sir," the doctor repeated to Nathan, much more sternly, "I'm sorry but we have to intubate him right now." She looked at the nurse across the bed. "Push one of ketamine."

Fillmore reached up with his injured arm and grabbed his Nathan's arm tightly. "Canton did this. He wanted revenge," he said before he was thrown into a coughing fit. Black soot landed on the bed sheet. Before Nathan could react to it, Fillmore continued as the doctors tried to push him back down to the bed, his voice dry and hoarse. "Whatever you do, do not tell Ingrid I'm here, she'll panic."

"Wait, what are you talking about? Where is she, Neil?" he asked him, but Fillmore's eyes started to droop. He tried to keep himself upright, but he let himself get guided to the mattress.

"Th-the bomb," he gasped, "w-was m-meant for her," he managed to say before shutting his eyes completely. One of the doctors faced Nathan, placed two hands on his shoulders, and gently pushed him back away from the bed.

"Sir, they need to get this boy admitted and taken care of," she started, but Nathan could hardly hear her as he helplessly watched his daughter's ash-covered best friend get wheeled out of his sight. "So," she continued, softly guiding him towards what was probably the waiting room, "why don't we get you settled in, and we can find out where your daughter is, okay?" At the mention of Ingrid, she received every bit of his attention with tear-filled eyes.

"I just, I-I need to know she's okay," he admitted, as the worry tore at his chest like a dull knife. The woman nodded at him with genuine sympathy, holding back tears of her own as she watched the worried father breaking in front of her.

"I can assure you that we're taking care of her, sir," she soothed, and rubbed her hand up and down his arm. "Let's go find out where she is, okay?"

 **xXxXx**

 **Okay, we all "knowwwww" that she turns out all right, but isn't the suspense just killing ya? I mean, I'm** _ **writing**_ **this damn thing, and it's practically killing** _ **me.**_

 **Please let me know what you think! I hope to hear from you soon!**


	2. Out of the Fire, Into the Woods

**Guuuuuuuys I'm so thankful for your reviews and follows! They mean the absolute WORLD to me. You remind me why I love writing so much. This is all for you. I won't spend forever gushing about you, I'll just get on with it, but thank you so so so so SOOO much.**

 **Read on, lovelies!**

 **xXxXx**

Between Heartbeats

Chapter Two – Out of the Fire, Into the Woods

An hour later, Nathan sat alone in the bustling waiting room. He was resting his throbbing head in his hands, which were tangled in his hair, as he struggled to process what little information the kind nurse had been able to give him. _Internal bleeding, shrapnel, concussion, OR 2 – god, she needed surgery? – lead surgeon will update as soon as he can._ His thoughts swam through an abyss of panic, confusion, and disbelief. He rubbed his eyes, which were burning with exhaustion, before he sensed someone standing next to him, looking down at him hesitantly.

"Have you heard anything, Nathan?" Vallejo asked, cautiously, as if he was afraid to hear the answer. Nathan couldn't blame him, given the circumstances. He was just thankful that the boy had opted not to ask the jaded "how are you holding up" question he hadn't stopped getting since he walked in the door. He looked up at the Safety Patrol Commissioner, who held two cups of coffee in his hands, and who looked years older than he did when Nathan saw him last. He could tell Vallejo's hands had been combed through his black hair countless times within the last few hours, accentuating the bags drooping under his dark, burdened eyes. His shoulders were slumped, and, while he'd leaned out over the course of puberty, his wrinkled and untucked button-up shirt sagged uncharacteristically from his shoulders like a tent. _And at only, what, seventeen years old?_ Nathan's stomach twisted into knots at the thought. It had taken him over an hour to find out where Ingrid was, and just as long to get an update on her condition; he couldn't begin to imagine having to account for the safety of every single student at X High School in an emergency like this. Vallejo held out one of the styrofoam cups to Nathan, which he gratefully took, but shook his head to answer his question.

"Only that she's in surgery," he started, but had to swallow the lump in his throat before he could continue. Vallejo plopped down in the vacant plastic seat beside him. "I don't even know _why_ she's in surgery, or how badly she's hurt, or why the _hell—"_ Vallejo flinched at Nathan's rare use of swear words "—she was so badly hurt in the first place, and _no one_ can tell me what the hell happened out there!" Multiple sets of eyes turned towards him curiously at his outburst, but, out of courtesy, no one said a word. Nathan took a deep breath and ran his free hand through his hair. _Keep it together, Nathan,_ he berated himself. He gulped down the lump in his throat once again while Vallejo struggled with how to respond.

Instantly, guilt flushed through Nathan. The boy probably had endured a myriad of outbursts like that from other worried parents… he shouldn't add to that kind of pressure. He's a _kid_ , for god's sake, who shouldn't have so much responsibility in the first place. He started to mumble an apology to him, but, with a shake of his head, the teen held up a hand to stop him.

"Don't apologize, Nathan," he told him. "Ingrid and Fillmore are only my friends, and not very close ones anymore, at that." Nathan looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. _Anymore?_ "And I've been worried senseless about them since Fillmore went in after her. Based on my own feelings, I can't even _imagine_ how you're feeling right now."

Nathan's heart skipped a beat. "Wait, 'went after'?" he asked, shakily. "I thought they _all_ went back in to help evacuate kids? You…" Vallejo's eyes grew glassy and heavy as Nathan spoke, which made him trail off, terrified of why he was looking at him like that.

"You have no idea what really happened, do you?" Vallejo asked, quietly. Wordlessly, Nathan shook his head, terrified to ask for the truth. Vallejo set his coffee down on the glass table in front of them, rested his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his eyes. He had no _clue_ where to begin, considering he didn't know what Ingrid had told him. "Awhile back, Ingrid went undercover to catch this thief…"

xXxXx

Vallejo had taken it upon himself to keep tabs on the students who were admitted into the hospital. He made his rounds, getting updates on their conditions, and relaying the information to loved ones who couldn't get it themselves. It wasn't protocol, and, in some way, it probably wasn't legal, but he did it anyway. Too many people were worried for the people they cared about, and there weren't enough answers to calm the storm. If Vallejo could help alleviate some of the worry, he damn well was going to try. That was his job, after all. To help and protect.

 _And what a great job you've done,_ he berated himself as he jotted down short-handed notes on the condition of a young freshman to pass on to her fellow cheerleaders, _landing your own patrollers – no, your own_ friends – _in the hospital with life-threatening injuries._ He shook the thoughts from his head, but the guilt remained, like an elephant sitting on his chest. The looks on Nathan Third's face as Vallejo told him what really happened would probably haunt the teenager forever. Nathan noticed Ingrid hadn't been sleeping well – he'd heard her waking up from nightmares every so often – but she shut him out. She never talked to him about them. And she never let him in on any details about the Canton case, nor about the cryptic calls she'd been tracking down.

If anyone was in shock, it was Nathan Third.

And Fillmore's parents… god, talk about a whirlwind of emotions. Vallejo felt so terribly for how they came to find their son. He had called them himself – and he would've called Nathan, as well, if he'd known his number – but, as he was explaining the gunfight that went down between Fillmore and the bomber, they hung up the phone to rush to the trauma center before he could say, "it was only a flesh wound, and he's fine."

Then, by the time the ambulance transporting Fillmore to the ER arrived at its destination, the boy started having a hard time breathing. He'd inhaled so much smoke, soot started coating the back of his throat, and doctors worried it had reached his lungs. By the time Karim and Joelle Fillmore arrived, they found him, not in danger of a gunshot wound, but that he'd been sedated and intubated. Seeing her only son unconscious and hooked up to so many machines, Joelle fainted on-sight.

Tehama and Anza were just fine. They were treated with oxygen and fluids at the scene, but Tehama was the worst of the two. As tough as she was, the shock of such a devastating experience scared the hell out of her. She lingered in the back of an ambulance on standby, wrapped in a blanket, and catatonic with shock. Anza refused to leave her side, holding her in his arms until she was able to function again. Despite the pleas of their parents to return to their homes, the moment they were cleared by paramedics, they rushed to the hospital to be near their injured friends.

Vallejo, however, couldn't stand waiting any longer. Karim was going back and forth from Fillmore's room to Nathan's side, hoping to offer some degree of comfort until Ariella arrived. She was driving as fast as she could, but, coming from Duluth, and considering most traffic in the area was at a standstill due to the bombing, she would be at least another hour, if not longer. Karen and Anza remained faithfully, yet silently, at Nathan's side, simply waiting for someone to arrive with information on Ingrid. With the comfort of knowing Nathan wasn't alone, Vallejo had left, feeling inspired to start gathering all the information on students that he could in hopes to alleviate the guilt he felt.

He shouldn't have let this happen.

It was nearly three o'clock before Vallejo returned, and, after over five hours of waiting and pacing in the waiting room, the unrelenting worry had slowly transitioned into exhaustion. The waiting room had steadily emptied as the hours crept by, blanketing Ingrid's friends and family in a melancholy silence. Ariella had finally joined her father two hours before and was gripping his hand like Ingrid's life was depending on it. O'Farrell, Bishop, and a few other safety patrollers Ingrid worked with frequently had showed up while he was gone. Some looked up at him, but no one dared break the silence. Vallejo's eyes scanned the group of people helplessly, most of whose attentions were all elsewhere. Anza, who had his arm around a zoned-out Karen, was the only one who acknowledged his arrival, which he did with a simple nod.

 _No word yet?_ Vallejo mouthed to him. Anza shook his head. Vallejo put a hand on his hip and rubbed his eyes. She was the only one he couldn't get information on… and it was killing him.

That's when the doors opened. Every head snapped up in that direction as a doctor in dark blue scrubs and a surgical cap walked through, heading straight for them. "Are you the family of Ingrid Third?" Nathan and Ariella shot up from their chairs, gripping onto each other's hands for strength. Nathan nodded vigorously.

"I'm her father, this is her sister, how is she? Is she all right?" Questions spilled rapidly from his mouth and every breath in the room hitched in anticipation for his answer.

The sympathetic look that crossed the doctor's tired face wasn't a comforting one. He stepped aside and held out his hand in the direction of the doors he just exited from. "Why don't we talk privately, Mr. Third?" Hearts plummeted to the floor, and scared eyes darted around the room at each other, as Nathan and Ariella wordlessly followed the man and they disappeared through the doors.

"My name is Dr. Arthur Rand," the doctor started, lifting a hand towards the open door coming up on their right before glancing back at the two behind him, "and I'm the chief of general surgery here at the hospital, so I want to assure you that we have and will continue to give your daughter nothing short of our _very_ best care." He stepped aside and motioned for them to step inside the conference room.

Nathan paused at the entrance of the door, allowing Ariella to step in and take a seat first. "So, she's all right?" he asked, shakily, without breaking eye contact. Ariella looked up from her seat at the oblong table expectantly, picking at her nails nervously.

Dr. Rand nodded. "She's all right for now—" Nathan and Ariella visibly deflated in relief. "—which is what I'd like to discuss with you." He, once again, nodded towards the table. Nathan, who hadn't taken his eyes off the surgeon, blindly reached for his oldest daughter's hand, which led him to a vacant chair next to her.

"How bad is it?" she asked, meekly, as Dr. Rand shut the door quietly and joined them at the table. He interlocked his fingers and rested them on the chestnut tabletop, taking a deep breath before beginning.

"Honestly, I think she's insanely lucky to be alive, given how close she was to the blast," he started, looking between the father and daughter clutching each other's hands. "But, she's nowhere near out of the woods yet."

Nathan's heart raced in his chest, threatening to jump up his throat, but he squeezed his daughter's hands harder, and gulped it back down. "Tell us," he said, shakily.

Dr. Rand took a deep breath.

 **xXxXx**

 **Aaaaaaaaand you'll find out how she is next time :D It has taken a lot of research so I'm super excited to weave it all together and post it for you. Please review and let me know what you think! I'm excited to hear from you!**

 **ellameno**


	3. Some Hero

**Heyyyy sorry I took a tad longer than I promised, I've been hella busy. But I'm super excited to finally be updating so let me know what you think!**

 **Read on and enjoy!**

 **xXxXx**

Between Heartbeats

Chapter Three – Some Hero

Heat flared through his chest every time he drew in a breath. It was normal, the doctor said. It'll go away. His pulse was racing, and, despite the cool temperature of the room, he was sweating. Fillmore glared at the ceiling tiles, as if they should be able to give him the answers to all the questions he had. He'd been unconscious for about seven hours; God only knew what had conspired in that time. What happened to Canton? Did the rest of the school cave in? Was anyone else severely injured or worse?

The rest of his questions revolved around Ingrid.

He knew that she was in ICU… but visitors were strictly family only. That was all that he knew. He had no idea how she was or how badly she was hurt, or even if she was going to pull through, and that thought alone scared the shit out of him. All he could see when he closed his eyes was Ingrid lying lifeless in the rubble, her skin the same shade of grey as the ash that thickened the air, with shards of glass, plastic, and metal protruding out of her skin. He swallowed the bile rolling up his throat and squeezed his eyes shut as they began to burn.

He listened to his heart rate increase on the monitor to his left, and he forced himself to take as deep of a breath as he could manage. _Mom is gonna figure out how she is,_ he tried to reassure himself. _She's gonna have good news._ The hole in his bicep throbbed and he brought his hand up to the sore spot, glaring at it as he recalled the memory.

 _Canton pushed the barrel of the handgun square into the center of Fillmore's chest. "They can't save her," he growled. Fillmore's fists shook with burning rage._

" _No one can save you, either," he threatened, his voice dangerously low._

 _Canton cackled and smirked maliciously at him as he cocked the weapon. The click echoed off the walls which sent an involuntary chill down Fillmore's spine. The barrel against his chest was too real… there was an actual possibility that he wouldn't be walking out of here._ I've got to act fast, _he thought to himself. "From what, prison?" Canton snarled at him. "You think I'm afraid of prison?"_

 _Fillmore balled his fists and shook his head. "Not from prison. From me."_

 _Their glares hardened._

 _Faster than he thought would have been possible, Fillmore's left hand shot up and pushed the barrel away from his chest – a split second before Canton pulled the trigger – and he dipped his shoulder into Canton's chest, forcing them both to the ground as a loud crack popped in his ears. The perp swore as Fillmore landed on top of him and instantly threw a punch into Canton's face._

 _The gun had clattered to the floor and Canton reached for it. Fillmore grabbed him by the collar and rolled away from the weapon but ended up underneath him and got a blow to the face for it. Fillmore threw an elbow, which caught Canton's nose with a sickening crack. The delinquent cried out and held his bleeding nose._ Get that gun! _Fillmore kicked the boy away from him and scrambled for the weapon. Just as he got his hand on it, Canton let out a menacing shout, but Fillmore turned on his back and aimed for him._

Fillmore massaged his sore wrist. He hadn't been ready for the recoil on the first shot. He'd never fired a gun before that moment. Hell, he'd never _seen_ a real gun before that. And the first time he'd held one, he shot at someone. Twice.

His thoughts traveled back to Ingrid and everything Canton had put her through; the nightmares, the paranoia, the flashbacks. But, in Fillmore's eyes, the worst thing Canton had done was making Ingrid doubt herself. Whatever insecurities Ingrid might have, her memory had never been one of them. She trusted her own judgement over almost anyone's because of her ability to recount every detail. Her mind had been her greatest asset… and he'd turned it into her greatest curse. She'd spent the last two months at war with her own mind, and it had torn her apart. Canton deserved whatever fate he met.

Fillmore grimaced. _Damn_. _Since when do you think like that?_

A soft knock broke his concentration and his head snapped towards the door, hoping to see his mother, but Vallejo was the one standing in the doorway. Vallejo pointed at him with a sardonically arched brow.

"You know, one of these days when I say, 'no heroics', I really hope someone listens to me," he commented as he stepped inside and approached the bed.

Fillmore couldn't hold back a chuckle. He shook his head and held out his fist, which the Commissioner bumped with his own. "You know damn well it ain't gonna be me, man," Fillmore replied, his voice hoarse, and dropped his arm back down on the bed. Vallejo pulled up the nearest chair and propped his elbows on his knees, wringing his hands together. He only did that when he was nervous… and nothing good ever came out of that. Fillmore's mind started spinning over the possibilities but decided playing guessing games with himself wasn't the way to go. "What is it, Vallejo?"

Vallejo took a deep breath and looked at him. "I know you've been out all afternoon, but I saw your dad downstairs… he said you're gonna be all right."

Fillmore nodded in agreement. "Physically, yeah."

Vallejo bit his lip. "Well, if you're up for it," he started with a crack of his knuckles, "I can answer your questions and fill you in. On everything."

Fillmore's stomach flipped. "Anything about Ingrid?"

"Okay, on everything _but_ Ingrid," he admitted with a cringe. "But I'm working on that."

Fillmore let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding but nodded. "Yeah, so's my moms," he commented dejectedly, not bothering to hide the worry buried in his tone. He went back to massaging his wrist as his mind swam. "I'm going nuts over here, man," he admitted softly, then coughed to stop the itching in his throat. "What was she doing on that side of the school? How'd she even end up there?"

Vallejo pulled out his phone. " _That_ is something I can answer." Fillmore's head shot over to him as the commissioner held the phone out to him. "Once fire and rescue finished evacuating everyone and putting out the fire, they found this in the rubble near the gym entrance." Fillmore took the phone and looked at the picture Vallejo had pulled up. It was a letter addressed to Ingrid with a broken wax seal. "It must've fallen out of her pocket when she was running out." Fillmore zoomed in on the paper, trying and failing to ignore the specks of his partner's blood tainting the page by looking at the text instead.

"'East wing gym'," he read, his voice low in shock.

Vallejo nodded. "We're not sure yet how she got it," he explained as Fillmore handed him the phone, "but we've got a feeling she's the only one who can answer that for us."

"And we can't even get in to see her," Fillmore sighed and rubbed his eyes. He hated the way that his voice cracked – partly from the smoke inhalation, partly from the unrelenting dread of not knowing pressing down on his chest – but a part of him didn't care. All he wanted to know was whether or not she pulled through, and he didn't care how he came across to the people around him.

"But, at least we know that she's _okay_ ," Vallejo reassured him with a nudge to his arm. "Plus, if your mom is a fraction as good as you are, she should be back here soon with a real update for us." He shot the bed-ridden teen a half smirk in hopes to lighten his mood, but Fillmore shook his head and waved him off.

"What else you got, man?"

With a sigh, Vallejo ran a hand through his short hair. "A support beam fell and trapped a few kids in a classroom on the second floor of the east wing, but as you know there aren't many classes in that wing that early in the morning. Anyone who was actually sent here with injuries were all from either smoke inhalation, being trampled, or were blown by the blast wind." Vallejo paused and licked his lips before he continued. "From the looks of it, you, Ingrid, and Canton were the only ones who were seriously hurt."

Rage burned in Fillmore's chest once more at the sound of that name. He bit down on his tongue to keep himself from saying anything he'd regret. "And where is he?" he spat, after a long, bitter moment.

Vallejo's eyes darkened. "He made it through surgery, if that's what you mean. They're transferring him to the prison hospital as we speak."

Fillmore tried to stifle the hatred boiling in his chest by biting down on his lip and shaking his head. He in took a slow, labored breath. "That's a damn shame."

From the doorway, a tired voice said, "I think I agree with you on that one, Neil." Vallejo spun around in his chair, while Fillmore's heart leapt in surprise. Nathan walked into the room, followed closely by Fillmore's mother. Nathan looked like a mess – his hair was sticking up in all the wrong places, his eyes were puffy and heavy, and his striped tie had been loosened. He'd unbuttoned the collar of this dress shirt, which had been untucked from his belt for comfort. Fillmore's body flooded with adrenaline, and he tried to fully sit upright.

"Nathan, how—"

"No, don't get up on my account," Nathan interrupted with an outstretched hand, as he walked around to the side of the bed opposite Vallejo. "You need your rest, too."

Fillmore released a short breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and settled back into his pillows, albeit uneasily. His heart fluttered with anticipation… was he ready to hear what Nathan had to say? "How is she?" he finally managed to ask.

Nathan shook his head and gripped the bedrail. "I have to admit that she's in rough shape, but, you know better than any of us that she can pull through."

"Just tell me, Nathan," Fillmore ordered, darkly. He hated the way his heart rate spiked on the monitor for them all to see, but, at the same time, it didn't matter. He just wanted – no, _needed_ – to know.

With a deep breath, Nathan began. "She took on a lot of shrapnel, so she's covered in stitches, and one of her eardrums ruptured. She's got a concussion, some broken ribs that punctured one of her lungs, and she dislocated her left shoulder—"

Fillmore nodded, rubbing his eyes as he flashed back to that haunted time in the hallway. "Which is why Anza couldn't find a pulse in her wrist."

"Yeah, her surgeon said something about the dislocation pinching an artery or something, so that would make sense," Nathan agreed. He hesitated and looked over at Joelle, silently asking for encouragement, and she nodded sympathetically. He drew in another shaky breath while Fillmore looked up, dreading what was coming after such a pause. "She, um…" Nathan trailed off, fighting the lump threatening to crawl up into his throat. _God, how many times am I going to have to relive this?_

But, much to his relief, Joelle stepped up. "Her organs are what took the hardest hit," she started, softly, and Fillmore turned his attention over to her. Nathan rubbed his eyes, which were brimming with tears, as she continued. "The shock wave caused a lot of internal bleeding, and they had to remove her spleen, so they're pumping her with antibiotics and fluids." The entire time she was speaking, Fillmore's spirit lowered. He could have sworn someone reached into his stomach, grabbed onto his intestines and twisted them into a million and one knots. It couldn't be real. It wouldn't be real, not until he saw her, but, just the _thought_ of Ingrid being so badly hurt… his heart ached. Vallejo stood up and offered Joelle his chair, which she gratefully took before nodding her thanks and continuing. "She developed a condition they called blast lung, which caused her lungs to collapse in surgery."

Fillmore shook his head, which was starting to throb. "What the hell is blast lung?"

Joelle pinched the bridge of her nose, which was something she always did as she tried to remember something. "Her doctor said it's a combination of symptoms like low blood pressure, shallow breathing, or something along those lines. It has to do with dramatic pressure changes that impair lung functioning. At this point…" Joelle gulped back tears of her own, "…she can't breathe correctly on her own."

Fillmore's heart lurched. "What does that mean? She's breathing out of a tube?"

After a hesitant pause, she nodded, her eyes growing glassy. "For now, yes." She and Fillmore stared at each other silently, as he struggled to process all that information into an image in his head. Ingrid, _his_ Ingrid, stitched up, surrounded by wires, depending on machines to stay alive… it made his heart ache and his eyes burn.

"Her doctor said she got lucky," Nathan started. His voice was heavy, the same way that Ingrid's did when she was holding something back. Fillmore turned his head to meet her father's eyes. Tears were streaming freely down the man's face. "He said that-that if she had gotten here any later than she did, that—" He squeezed his eyes shut, raised his fist to his mouth, and bit down, desperately trying to suppress a sob. Nausea swept over Fillmore like a tidal wave – he knew exactly where he was going, but, god, he didn't want him to say it. A long moment passed before Nathan looked up and pointed a finger at him, almost accusingly, and tears burned in Fillmore's eyes. "If you hadn't gone in after her, Neil, she wouldn't be here. She is still here, _fighting_ , because of you, and I-I can't tha—"

Fillmore reached out and pulled Nathan into a desperate hug. He couldn't listen to him anymore. As Nathan cried into his shoulder, and as Fillmore fought the urge to do the same, he forced himself not to blurt out all the reasons why Nathan _shouldn't_ be thanking him. The first reason: he wasn't there to protect Ingrid the way that he should have been. Not only was she his best friend, she was his _partner_. It was his job to stay by her side and to have her back. But, he took his eyes off her for hardly ten minutes, and she was taken. Or lured, or however she ended up at ground zero. The second reason: he could've helped prevent this entire disaster in the first place. If only he had just _seen_ what was happening with his best friend. If, somehow, he could have made her open up to him sooner, or if he could have connected the dots before Ingrid did – hell, he _was_ the one who created Deana Carter in the first place. Guilt buried its roots deep into his heart, pumping its way throughout the rest of his body at an agonizing crawl. How could he have failed her so terribly?

"You saved her, Neil," Nathan whispered, tearfully, breaking Fillmore away from his guilt-ridden train of thought. He shook his head silently in disagreement, but Nathan only held him tighter. "You _saved_ her," he insisted before pulling away to look at his daughter's savior. Shamefully, Fillmore refused to meet his eyes, choosing instead to pick at the tape holding the IV in place. "And, what's more, you _risked_ your life to save hers. Whether you believe me or not…" Nathan gripped Fillmore by the bicep, silently encouraging him to stop picking at the bandage. Fillmore glanced in his direction, but still wouldn't look up, as guilt continued to gnaw at his insides. "…you're a hero."

Despite himself, Fillmore chuckled, and shook his head in disagreement. All within a split second, his thoughts raced through every event that highlighted the reality that Ingrid had been fighting a myriad of demons all on her own, and that, because of that, everything (quite literally) came crashing down around her. All because he'd been too blind – no, too cautious – to find out what was going on. Yeah, physically, she could heal, but mentally, she still had a long road ahead of her. He might have saved her life, but, try as he might, he couldn't save her from her own mind.

"Yeah," he muttered with disdain. "Some hero."

 **xXxXx**

 **Ahhhhhhhh all the aaaaaaaangst! Angst is actually really tricky for me to write without getting too wordy, so let me know how I did… if you feel like it was too much, to vocabularian-ish, etc. etc. Please review! I'd love to hear from more of you!**

 **ellameno**


	4. What Hope is For

**Queen S – I'm glad you liked! :D**

 **Keahi Spitfire – I think you'll like this chapter then… You get some perspective from other key characters. I really wanted to include their dynamics more in** **Aftermath** **,** **but I wasn't sure how to without taking away from Ingrid's storyline. And yeahhh, it's always bothered me how people give Fillmore really cheesy nicknames in fanfics, and when I met someone named Neil, it was like a lightbulb moment xD I'm glad it didn't seem to OOC-angsty of him! I know Fillmore's all tough and everything, but I feel like a situation like this would, realistically, probably rattle him.**

 **Without further ado: CHAPTER FOUR!**

 **xXxXx**

Between Heartbeats

Chapter Four – What Hope is For

Joseph Anza wasn't one to be at a loss for words. In a tense situation, he always had a well-seasoned arsenal of witty remarks to choose from. Quips that were dark enough to lighten any mood, but not so witty to make light of the circumstances at hand. But, as he stood on the opposite side of the waiting room as Karen, watching her stare forlornly at the vacant chairs across from her, he found said arsenal empty. He wracked his brain, desperately trying to think of what to say before he sat down next to her, but words failed him. So, there he stood, hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall, while he waited for the words to kick him in the ass.

 _You seriously can't think of anything?_ he berated himself, biting the inside of his cheek in thought. He absentmindedly tapped the linoleum floor behind him with his toes as hospital staff came and went, paying him no attention. Of course, what kind of situation could have prepared him with the proper comic relief to help his friends cope with something like _this?_ Anza was having a hard time coping with reality himself. Bombs may fall from the sky in times of war, or detonate on the side of the road somewhere in the Middle East, but they don't go off _here._ Not at _home._ To him, this was all some sort of bad dream he wasn't sure he wanted to wake up from. If he woke up in his bedroom to his alarm clock, then he would have Karen take him to the nearest psychologist. But, if he woke up wherever the circumstances took him, and people he cared about were still fighting for their lives… he'd have to face reality.

He would have to _wake up._

He shook that terrible train of thought from his head and gazed back over at the dark-haired teenager across the room. His mind blanked once again. _What the hell do people even_ say _after something like this happens?_ he asked himself. His mind wandered, for a quick moment, to dozens of war and tragedy movies for inspiration, but, again, came up with nothing. That was when it hit him: nothing. _Maybe, I don't need to say anything_.

At this epiphany, he stood up straight from the wall, and truly looked at Karen for the first time. Her usually well-groomed raven hair was tangled and sloppily thrown into a bun on the top of her head. She was hunched over, with her elbows leaning on her knees for support, as she rocked unsteadily back and forth. His heart sank in his chest as he watched his normally optimistic, confident girlfriend act so uncharacteristically… terrified.

He couldn't stand it any longer.

He made his way across the hospital floor to her, a desperate purpose to his steps. With each step, his instincts kept telling him to have a quip prepared by the time he reached her, but he shrugged them off. People didn't know what to say when things like that happened because nothing anyone could say could make it all better. Instead, people waited together. Held each other's hands. Maybe prayed.

Joseph Anza? He just wanted to hold her.

He slowed to a stop right behind Karen; from such a far distance, he hadn't been able to see how badly she was shaking. And, when he heard her sniff, he knew it wasn't from being cold. Gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder as he whispered her name. For a split second, she panicked, sitting up straight, and quickly – albeit unsuccessfully – wiping her eyes dry of tears. He bit his lip, forcing down the lump making its way up his throat, as she finally looked up to find that it was him. Fresh tears fell from her weary, blue eyes – finally, tears, not of worry, but of relief. He circled around the chairs to sit next to her, but she stood up. She said his name through stifled tears and buried her face into his chest. He immediately wrapped his arms around her, quietly shushing her into her hair.

"God, Joe, I'm so scared," she admitted, tearfully, into her balled up fists, which were desperately clutching onto his shirt. He rubbed her back and nodded softly in understanding. She sniffed. "No-nobody's come back to tell us _anything_ about _either_ of them—" Anza tried to shush her, with no success, "—I-I feel like I'm going nuts here, I don't know if—"

"Karen—"

She shook her head, which she kept hidden against his chest, continuing frantically, "—I don't know what we're gonna do if anything happens—"

Anza's stomach lurched, anticipating how that statement would finish, but he couldn't bear to hear it. He broke away from her and held her face firmly in his hands. " _Karen._ " Fresh tears streamed from her eyes, leaving trails of mascara down her cheeks, which he wiped with his thumbs. She squeezed her eyes shut and stifled a sob with her hand. "Fillmore is gonna be out in the morning," he reassured her, and brushed her bangs from her eyes, which she stubbornly kept closed. "And Ingrid…" Anza trailed off, trying to keep his own emotions from bubbling to the surface by taking a deep breath. At his silence, she looked helplessly up at him, quietly hoping he had the answers she'd been waiting vigilantly for. "She's probably gonna have a long road ahead of her, but, Karen…" He cringed at the way her face fell to disappointment, but his hands found their way to the back of her neck, and his fingers weaved through her hair – that _never_ failed to make her feel better. She shivered and gripped his wrists tightly as he rested his forehead against hers. "You know that Ingrid's a fighter. You _know_ she's gonna make it through this."

She shook her head, forlornly looking up into his eyes. "No, we don't know that for _sure_ , Joseph, that's the problem." She sniffed. "We don't know anything at _all._ "

He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut, unsure of what to say to comfort her next as she continued to ramble about how terribly not knowing anything was scaring the hell out of her. It was killing him that Karen was falling apart in his arms and he couldn't think of all the right things to say to her. Obviously, a stupid joke would be a terrible idea – not like he had any up his sleeve, but how could he say one if he did, anyway? – and he was never known for giving good advice. That was Fillmore's thing.

A lightbulb went off in Anza's head. Now, _that_ was an idea. What would Fillmore say? He wracked his brain for any kind of advice that Fillmore had given him in the past that might give Karen peace of mind, at least for now. His mind instantly trailed back to freshman year, when his parents told him they were splitting up. He'd seen it coming; not like the yellow light that always comes before the red, but more like the sudden change in air pressure as a storm approached. He noticed the signs – the way his ears popped and the temperature in his house changed – but didn't know what they meant until the rain started to fall and they broke the news at the dinner table. Not knowing who to call, he called the guy who always seemed to have some kind of answer: Cornelius Fillmore.

" _Dawg," Fillmore set his cup of cocoa down on his desk before he ran his hand over his bald head in awe._

 _Anza nodded. "Tell me about it."_

 _Fillmore shook his head in disbelief. "I'm sorry it went down like that, man." Anza shrugged, glowering down into his own mug of steaming hot cocoa. The marshmallows in it were mostly melted, so he swirled his mug around gently to speed up the dissolving process. "I didn't realize things were so bad at home, Joe."_

 _He shrugged again. "It's not something you just casually bring up," he barked, cringing immediately after the words left his mouth. He hadn't meant to say it so harshly, but Fillmore raised a hand in recognition. Anza ran his free hand through his ruffled hair. "You never really know how to anyway, you know?"_

 _Fillmore nodded and picked up his mug. "I can imagine," he said, and took a sip. He wrapped his hands around it and stared into it, pensively. "Is there anything I can do for you, man?" he asked, looking up at his friend._

 _Anza shrugged helplessly and sighed before setting down his mug on the card table next to him. "Honestly, I don't even know, Fillmore, I just…" He propped his elbows on his knees before resting his head in his hands. "I don't even know what to do, you know?" He ran his hands through his hair one more time before looking up to see his friend nodding in agreement. Anza stood up abruptly, confusion and frustration battling to be the most dominant emotion at the front of his mind. He paced the room, throwing one hand up and the other in his hair. "I don't even know what's gonna happen to_ me _. I mean, you hear all these shitty stories about families breakin' up and all the brutal custody fights and I don't think I can handle all that, man." He flung his hands in Fillmore's direction for emphasis. "I mean, I'm not strong like_ you _are or like Karen and Ingrid."_

 _Shaking his head and setting down his mug, Fillmore stood up. "Whoa, Joe, wait a—"_

 _Anza ignored him. The reality of the situation his parents had him in was finally setting in, which had the walls closing in on him. This divorce would threaten_ everything _for him; his school work, his job on the patrol – which he loved more than almost anything – his friends, and Karen, god, Karen. No one could ever replace her. He'd spent more time than he probably should have evaluating how he truly felt for his partner through all these years, but the idea that he might not have a choice but to go through the rest of high school without her… he couldn't bear that thought. If there was_ one _feeling he was sure about, it was that one._

" _I mean, I don't wanna leave here, my whole life is here!" Anza continued aloud, effectively interrupting whatever Fillmore had been trying to say. "Karen's here, and the—" He tripped over his tongue. All those other things he thought he was worried about… the safety patrol, his schooling, his friends… he tried to say he didn't want to leave them behind either, but, in comparison, none of them mattered as much as she did._

" _Just Karen, huh?" Fillmore asked, softly. A part of Anza wanted to jump his ass in self-defense, but who was he kidding? If anyone were to understand his feelings about_ her _, it would be Fillmore. He saw the same thing between Fillmore and Ingrid that he did between Karen and himself. Of course, with them two being much more emotionally-closed-off individuals than Karen and he were, they'd probably take much longer to figure it out, but that was beside the point. Anza knew that question hadn't been rooted from a place of judgment._

 _With that, he resigned to a heavy sigh, and leaned against the desk next to Fillmore. "I can't leave here, man, I can't…" He tried to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. "I can't leave_ her _." He felt his cheeks heat up as he said that out loud, but, at the same time, it felt good to get it off his chest in a safe place._

 _Fillmore faced him. "Well, for one thing, you are most definitely stronger than you think you are, whether you believe it or not. I mean, when we're put to the test, we all turn out to be," he started. He reached up and put a hand on Anza's shoulder, making him look up. The sincere gaze in the boy's dark eyes fixed Anza's feet to the floor. "And, as much as it sucks to hear it," Fillmore continued, "what's meant to be is gonna work itself out. No matter what gets in its way, if you're meant to stay here, with us – with_ Karen _– you gotta believe that."_

 _Anza's stomach sank. Fillmore was right. It_ did _suck to hear that. "Nah, you and I, we function differently," he argued, as he walked back over to his chair and picked up his abandoned mug of cocoa. The marshmallows had finally disappeared. He sat down and took a sip before continuing. "You have your famous gut instincts to rely on, and Ingrid and Karen have their smarts, but me?" He gestured to himself, arms wide open. "I'm not that lucky. I need the evidence, I need the_ proof _. I need to_ know _that things are gonna turn out okay," his voice breaking on the last word. He swore to himself as Fillmore looked down, but he found it in him to ask that burning question he'd been dying to ask since he knocked on his friend's door. "Man, how do I know?"_

 _Fillmore shrugged. "You don't, man."_

 _With that declaration, every remaining shred of determination died in him. Anza's shoulders slumped, and he stared down into his mug. Suddenly, an overwhelming urge to just… give up loomed over him. His eyes burned, and a single tear fell into the brown liquid swirling in the cup._

 _But, Fillmore wasn't finished. "You can't always know, man, you can't always have the answers. As shitty as it is, that's not how it works."_

 _Anza scoffed. "So, tell me how it works, then, Fillmore," he spat, looking back up at him. "Tell me, if I can't have all the answers, if I can't know everything, then what do I do?"_

" _You hang on to hope, Joe." Anza's heart skipped a beat. "That's what it's for."_

That same spark that ignited in his chest all those years ago reignited as he snapped out of his memory and into the present, where Karen wept. His heart ached at the sight, but he tilted her face up to his with his thumbs.

"We don't have to know, Karen," he whispered, and kissed her forehead before pulled her back into his chest and squeezing her tight. "That's what hope is for."

She stiffened for a moment as his statement sunk in, and he held his breath, hoping it would do the same for her as it did for him. Finally, her shoulders fell, and she wrapped her arms around him. He sighed with relief, rocking her back and forth as she caught her breath. She turned her head, where her ear was just over his heart, and listened to the steady thump against his chest. As her sobs faded into quiet lament, he rubbed her shoulders, which were tense from all the events of the day. With every passing moment, he felt her relax in his arms, and he rested his head on top of hers. He closed his eyes, fully intending on soaking in this moment for as long as possible, before she groaned.

"Dear God, I'm a mess."

As disappointed as he was that the moment was over, he couldn't stop his wit from stepping in. He looked down at her, mischievously. "Yeah, a pretty hot one, I'd say," he agreed. "Emphasis on 'hot'."

He could practically hear her roll her eyes. "Oh, shut up." He chuckled as she pulled away to wipe clean her tear-stained cheeks. His hands fell to her waist, where his thumbs instinctively caressed the curves of her ribs. She looked cautiously over her shoulders for prying eyes. "We're not doing our cover any favors, are we?" she asked quietly, masking her unease with a chuckle.

He raised his eyebrow at her. "I'm pretty sure it's normal to hug your friends after a shitstorm of a day like this one," he replied, trying to be humorous, but failed. "And, if I'm being honest," he started, turning her face towards with the tip of his finger on her chin, "I don't want to hide anymore." Her tired, brown eyes looked longingly back and forth between his eyes and his lips, but he swallowed that desire. "It…" he trailed off, biting his lip to keep his voice from breaking. Her eyebrows furrowed as his demeanor shifted, but she didn't push him. He gulped down the lump in his throat. "It could have been any of us in that OR today," he said, and she tried to look down to hide more tears, but he cupped her face in his hands. "And you know that I love you, Karen."

She nodded immediately as more tears fell. "I love you, too," she whispered, as she placed her hands over his own and turned her face to lightly kiss the palm of his left hand, which sent a chill down his spine. He ran his thumbs across her cheeks, wiping away fresh tears. She scoffed at herself. "God, how can I _still_ have tears left?"

He chuckled as she wiped her cheeks dry. "We're gonna be okay," he started, and she looked ack up at him. "No matter what happens." She stood up on her toes to kiss him quickly on the lips. They lingered only for a moment before she returned to her feet and he wrapped her in his arms once again, running his fingers through the loose strands of hair at the base of her neck.

She shivered at his touch but held him tighter as a silent plea for him not to stop. Sometimes, all Joseph had to do was show up for her to feel better. That might not have been one of those times, but there was no feeling in the world quite like him playing with her hair when she was upset. The tension in her shoulders began to ease as she relished the feeling of him twirling strands of her raven hair in his fingers. Drowsiness threatened to sweep over her, but she didn't mind. At this point, she was ready to welcome anything that would help her escape from the day and the events that came with it.

And, just like that, images of her best friends getting blown up and shot flew into her mind, effectively interrupting the peace sweeping over her. She felt the residual panic from this morning stir up the butterflies in her stomach and kickstart her heartrate, but she squeezed Anza tighter, burying her face into his chest and much as she could. He returned the gesture and kissed the top of her head, then shushed her softly. She drew in a deep, shaky, breath, desperately trying to keep herself calm, but the agony of not knowing anything was too much for her to handle.

"God," she started with a sniff, "I just wish that we knew something." She pulled away from him slightly to look up at him.

"I'm sure we'll know something soon, Karen," he reassured her, brushing her bangs away from her eyes. She looked up at him. "They should be getting Fillmore off the ventilator any time now."

"They already did," Vallejo said from behind them.

Karen jumped, and both of their heads whipped over to the Commissioner, who hand his hands in his pockets, and was eyeing them curiously. Fighting the heat rising to his cheeks, Anza wondered how long he'd been standing there, but Karen didn't let him dwell on that for long.

"Wait, when?" she asked, abruptly breaking away from Anza and stepping towards Vallejo, albeit slightly more aggressive than she'd intended. He backed off cautiously at her sudden advancement. "So, he's okay? We can see him?"

Vallejo nodded. "Yeah, he's okay, and he's on the eighth floor, room 3019," he said, then added with an encouraging smile. "He was asking about you."

With renewed vigor, Karen darted towards the elevator before Joseph could even blink, leaving him alone with Vallejo. He watched Anza, who was shifting awkwardly on his feet, with amusement.

"So," he started. Anza looked over at him. "You and Tehama, huh?" he asked, nonchalantly.

Anza nodded. "Yep."

Vallejo nodded in understanding. "Nice." He let that comment hang in the air for a moment. "That recent?"

The elevator bell rang its arrival, and Anza pursed his lips and Karen called out to him. "As of the fourth of July." Vallejo's eyes, wide like saucers, trailed the boy as he went to join his apparent girlfriend of… he plopped down into the nearest chair as he did the math. _Eight months?_ He thought to himself.

He rubbed his temples to soothe the growing ache in his head. " _Jesu Christi_ , I need a drink."

 **xXxXx**

 **Surprisssssse xD I really wanted to include them more in past stories but wasn't quite sure how, so I'm using this fic to do that. I think they're just so sweet together! At least, they are the way that I wanna write them.**

 **Lemme know what you think! I'll try to update again soon!**

 **ellameno**


	5. Like a Moth to a Flame

**Sorry for the delay in posting, I've spent a lot of time tweaking this chapter trying to get it just right, but I'm finally here haha! I hope you all enjoy!**

 **xXxXx**

Between Heartbeats

Chapter Five – Like a Moth to a Flame

 _Beep… beep… beep…_

 _My lungs inflated, not by will of my own. That was probably a good thing; I was much too tired to do so myself._

 _Beep… beep… beep…_

 _My skin burned. Had burned… was burning? Tenses are weird. Were weird… Whichever. Whatever? God, don't think so much. Your head hurts too badly. Bad… much? Ugh._

 _Beep… beep…_

 _Colors swirled in my vision, circling around stars in a way that would make that painter proud. What was his name again? I don't think that's important. Something else was more important at the moment… What was it?_

 _Beep… beep… beep…_

 _My heartbeat resounded off the walls of my skin, rattling around my body like a… one of those shaking music things. I tried to lift my arms to play it, but they weren't listening. Too heavy. Made of lead._

 _Beep… beep…_

 _No, not too heavy, they were too far away. They're not here, but why do they hurt like they're attached to me?_

 _Oh, wait, they_ hurt _. Oh my_ god _why does everything hurt?_

 _Beep, beep, beep—_

 _The swirling colors faded to black and my newfound abyss quaked as a sonic boom erupted. Heat tickled my skin, walls crumbled around me._

 _Beep, beep, beep—_

 _Darkness wrapped me up and pulled me away. "Dear god, stop making me move," I wanted to shout, but one could hear me. Wait, was anyone even there? Fillmore, Karen, someone, help me, anyone—_

 _Just sleep, Ingrid…_

 _Beep… beep…_

 _Just sleep…_

Ariella, curled up in the cushioned chair next to Ingrid's bed, stared blankly at the heart monitor and watched the line spike in sync with the monotonous chirp coming from the machine. The rhythm had lulled her into a lucid catatonia, assuring her that it would alert her of any changes in her sister's condition. So, she let her thoughts wander to happier places, or at least, less terrifying ones.

Fillmore would be all right. The boy woke up on a ventilator, prepared to rip it out and search for Ingrid before the doctors could even rush into the room. Apparently, it took his father holding him down and his mother convincing him not to panic to keep him from doing so. Even after his doctor removed the breathing tube and replaced it with an oxygen mask, Fillmore was still determined to go find her. It hadn't surprised his parents in the least, but it took a stern order from his doctor, on top of a promise from his mother that she would find out Ingrid's condition for him, to get him to stay in bed. So, Joelle had somehow, in a very "Fillmore" fashion, snuck her way into the ICU to visit them.

Nathan had been too preoccupied on his own child's wellbeing – of course, could anyone blame him? – but he felt terrible for not keeping Fillmore's parents more informed, considering that he had very well saved her life. So, with the assurance that she would call him with the slightest change in Ingrid's condition, he left Ariella at her bedside to update the boy himself. _And_ to personally thank him.

 _He's been gone quite a while,_ she thought to herself, but quickly whisked the thought away that something had gone wrong. Her eyes quickly flicked over to the clock on the wall before returning her gaze to the machine. _A good thirty minutes,_ she concluded, repositioning herself in the chair as she felt her leg start to tingle with needles. _Must be having a Kodak moment._

 _Beep, beep, beep_

Ariella straightened up in her seat at the sudden spike in Ingrid's heartrate, and her eyes fixated on Ingrid's rising and falling chest. Her breathing hadn't changed – a courtesy of the ventilator, which noisily confirmed it was doing its job – but her eyes frantically zipped around underneath her eyelids. Ariella's eyes burned with sympathetic tears. _She's dreaming._ She took a deep breath to counteract the panic racing through her veins, but her heart couldn't help but ache as she looked at her baby sister.

A gauze bandage was taped carefully over her left eye, no doubt hiding a nasty cut. The hollows of her eyes were bruised and swollen, and her face was littered with other small cuts. A large bruise stretched from her cheek down to her jaw, where the tube that was helping her breathe was taped in place. Her pale arms were covered in scrapes, bruises, and stitches, some covered with gauze, and others not. Tubes and wires were sticking out of her arm and out from under her hospital gown, none of which Ariella knew the purpose of. Her left shoulder was bound cautiously to her chest and her hand, which donned a grey oxygen saturation monitor on one finger, rested on her stomach. Her lips had regained some of their color, which eased her mind. _That was a good sign, right?_

As Ingrid's heartrate slowed back down, Ariella sank back into her chair and took off her glasses, rubbing the tears from her eyes. She desperately tried not to imagine all the other cuts, injuries, and bandages she knew she couldn't see. When she woke up this morning, she had absolutely no clue she would end up at her sister's bedside in a hospital. She had plans to catch lunch after class with her lab partner to flesh out their notes from that days' lecture, and then rendezvous with her boyfriend for a late-night study session (although, neither of them had anything to study for, but no one else needed to know that detail). It was supposed to be a normal, ordinary, day… until she got that teary phone call from her father. Her entire body ached, and her joints creaked in opposition as she pulled her knees back up to her chest.

"She doing okay?" she heard her father whisper behind her.

She would have jumped in surprise if she'd had it in her, but exhaustion kept her from doing so. Instead, she just nodded as she heard him approach. "Yeah, nothing's changed," she told him. A water bottle, foggy with condensation, appeared at the corner of her eye, and she murmured her thanks and took it. Nathan rubbed her shoulder for a moment before walking to the opposite side of the bed to sit on the couch, which was backed against the wall. Ariella took a sip. It was cold and refreshing; just what she needed. She gulped down another drink before screwing the cap back on. "How's Fillmore?"

Nathan, who'd rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, shrugged before looking back up at her. "As good as can be expected," he started, running his hands through his hair. He leaned back into the couch. "He's getting pumped full of antibiotics, so as long as nothing goes wrong, he'll be out first thing in the morning."

Despite herself, Ariella scoffed. Nathan raised his eyebrow in confusion. "You really think he's gonna be leaving the hospital once he checks out?" she asked, prodding her head in Ingrid's direction. "Especially when she'll still be here?"

Nathan chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, you're probably right." He looked over at his youngest daughter. In her sleep, her hand twitched, and he placed his hand softly over hers. He bit his lip, still mulling over the notion that, despite their age, they truly weren't kids anymore. Ariella eyed him curiously.

"What is it?" she asked. "You've got that look."

He sighed, not taking his eyes off Ingrid. "I don't know," he admitted with a shake of his head. She raised her eyebrow, identical to the way Ingrid always did. "It's still just so hard to believe that they've found themselves in this kind of situation, and to be the target of it all, on top of that. I mean, when—" he choked up, gripping Ingrid's hand tighter and squeezing his eyes shut. Hot tears threatened to fall, but he held them back, swallowing the sob that was soon to follow before he looked back at Ingrid. "—when did you guys go from being kids to being targets?"

Ingrid didn't answer.

xXxXx

Fillmore cupped one hand under the cold water, letting it pool together before he splashed it on his face. He did that two more times before he shut the water off and stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, at the droplets cascading slowly down his face. His nurse had been kind enough – or, rather, charmed enough, given Fillmore's knack for captivating the opposite sex – to snatch him a pair of blue scrubs to wear instead of the hospital gown. It helped him feel less like a victim but did nothing to quell the helplessness taking root in his chest. His eyes drifted from the nasal cannula hanging from his neck, to the bandage wrapped around his right bicep, and then to the IV sticking out the back of his left hand. He shook his head, almost disapprovingly.

Everything felt so unreal… so wrong. It seemed like ages ago that he was with Ingrid in the elevator, powerless to do anything to help her. It had been such a whirlwind of events and emotions since, and, despite that the chaos had subsided, he felt hypervigilant, just waiting in dread for the next disaster to strike. In a way, it felt like a high – a high he was terrified to come down from.

A soft knock tapped at the door. "Cornelius?" Joelle called to him, effectively snapping him out of his thoughts. "Are you okay?"

He cleared his throat, reaching for the paper towels on his right. "Yeah," he responded, before wiping his face. "I'll be out in a second."

In order for reality to finally set in Fillmore's mind, he would have to see her. It scared him shitless, but, finding Ingrid in the wreckage felt like some sort of bad dream to him, especially after he'd been sedated. As he hooked the cannula back onto his ears and placed the tubes in his nose, he remembered waking up in a fog, unsure of what happened or where he was. It had all been a bad dream to him and, until he could see her hooked up to all the machines, bandaged from head to toe, it would stay that way. A huge part of him wished that it could.

He took a deep breath of cold, artificial air through his nose and shivered. His heart ached at the idea of seeing her in such a state. But, she was his best friend – arguably, his better half – and she needed him to be there for her much more than he needed everything to be a nightmare. His eyes started to burn, but if he stayed in the bathroom any longer, he was sure his mother would barge in unnecessarily. With another deep breath, he latched onto the IV pole and pulled the door open, revealing Joelle waiting patiently for him. Her expression softened as she looked him over, noticing the tears brimming in his eyes. _Damn, Fillmore,_ he scolded himself, _you wanna keep it together?_

She held her arms open to him. "Oh, honey—"

He waved her off and tried to walk past her, saying, "Mom, I'm fine." But, although his voice was hoarse from smoke inhalation, the sound of heartache in his words was unmistakable to her. She grabbed onto his arms, forcing him to stop and face her.

"Cornelius, you don't have to lie to me," she told him as she moved to stand between him and his bed. He avoided her eyes – which was easy due to the fact he was almost a foot taller than her – and shook his head at the wall behind her, but she pinched his chin and forced him to look down at her. His grip on the IV pole tightened as he struggled to keep his composure. "Ingrid is _strong_. She's going to be okay."

Fillmore scoffed, and shook his head out of her grasp, forlornly. "Yeah, physically, maybe," he countered, shrugging away from her and walking towards his bed. The IV pole's wheels squeaked quietly as he approached the bed, and he sat down on the edge of the mattress with a sigh.

Joelle shrugged. "Well, of course there's going to be emotional repercussions," she added, assuming the direction Fillmore's loaded comment led her in, "but that goes for _all_ of you, not just her." She stepped toward him.

Fillmore, donning a disbelieving smirk, chuckled softly, while shaking his head. "Trust me, none of our heads are gonna be as fucked up as hers will be when she wakes up."

Joelle gaped at his language. " _Cornelius_ —"

"No, none of you _get it_ ," he cut her off with a swipe of his arm. "None of you have _any_ idea how wrapped up she is in all of this, and all everyone can say is how 'she's so strong, she's gonna be okay, it's Ingrid so she's gonna be back on her feet in no time', but none of you have any idea how hard it's gonna be to not lose her _goddamn mind_ when she wakes up! As if she wasn't in the process of doing that already, she's gonna be back at square one since she's got all _this_ bullshit—" he pointed an accusing finger at the muted TV mounted on the wall, which had been tuned in to the news "—to pile right on top of it." Frustration boiled in his chest, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from continuing.

Joelle, however, tilted her head in confusion. "On top of what?" she questioned.

 _Shit,_ Fillmore swore to himself. He'd said too much. He forced himself to take as deep of a breath as he could manage, and shook his head, disappointed with himself. "Never mind, Mom," he said, rubbing his eyes. He felt his heart rate begin to slow down as the guilt settled in his chest from yelling at his mom. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to yell."

She nodded in recognition of his apology, but something nagged at her. Nathan hadn't mentioned anything about Ingrid having a tough go of things as of late, and she began to wonder if maybe her son knew something about Ingrid that the rest of them didn't. The mother in her screamed for her to let it go – that, in that moment, _her_ son's mental and physical well-being are what she needed to be focused on – but another part of her latched onto the allusion that her son believed Ingrid would need the most help of any of them. She hesitated as she watched his shoulders sag, but asked, "Honey—" he looked up at her with heavy eyes, "—is there something you're not telling us?"

Instantly, Fillmore shook his head. _Dammit, Mom,_ he cursed. "Don't worry about it, Mom," he deflected and reached for his glasses on the nightstand. She bit her lip as he put his glasses on, debating whether she should push the issue, when she heard a female voice, teeming with hope, call out her son's name. She turned around a split second before Tehama and Anza showed up in the doorway, and she watched their faces flood with relief.

"There's my baby girl!" Fillmore greeted with a grin, and Joelle looked back at him in disbelief, as Tehama ran into his outstretched arms and embraced him.

His frustrated demeanor had vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

xXxXx

Her entire body throbbed in sync with her heart, dragging her mind behind her. She heard someone speaking softly from somewhere she couldn't reach. She reached for the surface but only ran into lead limbs and sealed eyelids. _I'm in pain,_ she deduced, as a diluted ache pulsed through her veins, like a distant, steady drum. Even in the darkness, outside of her body, she could feel herself floating through a dense, chilled fog. _Where the hell am I?_ A faint beep far off in the distance caught her ear. Steady and sharp, it echoed quietly around the darkness, called out to her like a beacon in the night.

 _Ignore it,_ a deep voice in the back of her mind told her as she leaned toward the sound. Her heart leapt in shock as that voice – god, that menacing voice – sent a shockwave of panic throughout the abyss. She knew it… but how did she know it? _Just relax,_ it told her. The distant beeping increased.

A sliver of light appeared at the edge of the darkness. A soft voice called out through it. _Ingrid? Who's Ingrid?_ Curiously, like a moth to a flame, she reached for it, despite her racing heart that begged her not to. It resounded rapidly in her skull as the light grew brighter, and the abyss grew warmer. The voice from the black faded, drowned out by the monotonous chirp coming from the light. But the pain gradually grew worse the closer she came to the surface, and she curled in on herself, suddenly desperate for the numbing chill of the darkness.

 _Come on, Dee,_ the darkness called out, _give in to me._

She longed to succumb to it, to linger in the comforting solitude of the darkness, but paranoia settled in the pit of her stomach as the voice echoed around her. It felt so wrong, so _evil._ The light started to fade, but, from the depths of her conscience, another voice – much different than the first – called out to her:

 _Come back to me, mama…_

She opened her eyes.

 **xXxXx**

 **She's awaaaake woohoooooooo! Haha please review! I'd love to hear from more of you!**

 **ellameno**


	6. Succumb

**Sorry for the wait guys. It's been a long couple of weeks for me (you can blame the insane amount of stress in my life at the moment paired with my new-found coping mechanism of binge-watching Game of Thrones), but I've finally got a little something for you! And a nice, long chapter should be coming soon after. THAT I can promise haha.**

 **Read on!**

 **xXxXx**

Between Heartbeats

Chapter Six – Succumb

The endless ringing in her ears made the already-excruciating pressure in her head intensify by the second, as if someone was forcing a thousand blunt objects into her skull, slowly and all at once. Whatever she was lying on was stiff but had assimilated to her shape, cradling her gently. Something snaked down her throat; she wanted to swallow it, or spit it out, but couldn't bring herself to do either. The air around her was sterile and cool which made her involuntarily shiver. Unwillingly, she peeled her eyes open, instantly regretting it as the cold air made her eyes sting.

A voice broke through the noise. "Dad… waking up…"

 _Ari?_ She squeezed her eyes shut, begging for the darkness to come back as the pain overwhelmed her. Instinctively, she tried to cry out, but nothing came out. Whatever was lodged in her throat kept her from doing so.

"Ing…ou hear me?" _Dad? What happened?_ The ringing in her ears was relentless. Deafening.

 _Wait – I think I'm choking._

She felt her chest rise and fall – and painfully so – as her lungs filled with cold, artificial air. She tried to inhale on her own, but choked, and her eyes flew open as panic surged through her. Her heart pounded against the wall of her aching chest as her eyes darted around the strange room, where everything she saw was tinted red. _Where the hell am I?_

A blurry version of her father appeared in the corner of her eye. "…rid, don't pa…" _Why did he sound so far away?_ Adrenaline surged through her battered body, sending the pain pulsing to the ends of every limb, but she persisted to struggle, fighting the sling that bound her left arm to her body in her effort to pull out whatever was lodged in her throat. Her father gripped her free wrist to stop her as gently as he could. "…safe, okay?" _What? How can I be safe here, can't you see I'm choking? Where_ is _here? What happened?_ Her thoughts buzzed throughout her pounding skull in a frenzy, and hot tears burned in her eyes. She blinked furiously; if she did so fast enough, maybe her vision wouldn't be so cloudy.

"…octor's coming," her sister's voice, slightly clearer than her father's, reassured her from her left. Her gentle fingers grazed Ingrid's damp forehead. "…are of you, okay?"

 _Doctor. Tubes. Antiseptic… I'm in a hospital?_

Ingrid squeezed her eyes shut as the pain intensified, and she let out a strangled cry, despite the tube keeping her from speaking. Agony pulsed in her ears. _God, please, make it stop._ Coughs erupted from her chest, sending fire throughout her lungs and stomach, and hot tears streaming down her face. Nathan's muffled voice called out. "…awake…"

Ariella joined in. "…crying blood?" Ingrid's mind spun, overwhelmed with pain and confusion. _Can't someone tell me what the_ hell _is happening?_

A strange, yet calm voice pierced through the ringing in her ears towards the end of the bed. "It looks like it," he confirmed, shooing Ariella off to the side and approaching Ingrid. He pulled something out of his coat pocket and said something to her father, as helplessness consumed her. She squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to succumb to the darkness again, when she felt a hand on the top of her head and a thumb above her right eye. Before she could react, the man pried her eye open – albeit, as gently as he could – and she looked directly into the bright light. Reflexively, she tried to pull away, but the endless pain weakened her by the second.

"…it's a rare cond…" He released her right eye and switched to her left. "…temporary…"

As he flashed the light in her other eye, she desperately tried to trigger her memory. She stopped fighting against her father – who loosened his grip on her arm as she did so – and squeezed her eyes shut the moment the doctor let go. Their voices muffled together as she tried to stifle the frustration that she couldn't verbally express her pain or remember for herself why she was where she was. She sank back into the pillow, hoping maybe her memory would kick in if she concentrated.

 _But, god, concentrating hurts,_ she concluded, as her head throbbed harder than ever, sending waves of pain down her throat and into the pit of her nauseated stomach. She felt an arm – her father's? – press down lightly on her chest and her eyes flew back open. The blurry room was still tinted red, and the doctor reached over her right ear towards her father, and she heard a snap by her left ear. She flinched in surprise. The man – her doctor? – tilted her head towards him, then held a balled fist to his mouth, then tapped lightly on her chest. She stared at him dumbly. _What the hell does that mean?_ The doctor held up three fingers. Two. One. Suddenly, she felt him pulling at tube in her throat.

 _Jesus Christ, Third, cough._

Hard, agonizing coughs wracked through her body, and the tube came out faster. For a moment, as it scraped rough against her trachea, she feared it was going to take her lungs with it.

"Good, Ingrid…" someone told her.

Finally, it was out. Her father took his arm off her chest and she leaned over on her right side, coughing into her pillow. Stars danced in her vision and someone rubbed her back, encouraging her to continue. _She turned her face into the rubble-covered floor beneath her, pain shooting through her chest and stomach. Blood spurted from her mouth onto the ash-covered tile floor—_

Ingrid gasped as her memory returned to her in a tidal wave. _Oh god. The bomb._

Fear struck her in the chest and her heart rate spiked on the monitor to her left. _The bomb the school the gunshots_ Her hand shot out and grabbed her father by the arm as her photographic memory flooded her brain like a movie on fast-forward.

"Ingrid-"

 _The smoke the ringing the pain – oh god, the pain – Fillmore –_

Fillmore had been there.

" _Come back to me, mama."_

She felt him take her in his arms and rest his head on her chest before he picked her up and carried her away. _No not him_ ; whoever was carrying her felt different. Smelled different. Sounded different. _Who was it?_

 _Sirens pop screaming pop pop_

Panic washed over her. _No no no he can't be_ Her grip on her father's arm tightened as she tried to use him to pull herself up. _"FILLMORE"_ Her eyes burned with tears and she tried to sit up, but someone softly stopped her from doing so.

"Ingrid—" her father's voice was clearer now, "—you can't get up right now, not in this state," he told her, keeping his voice low.

She gasped for air as she tried – and failed – to fight off her father's hands when a clear oxygen mask was placed over her mouth and strapped around her head. "P-Please—" she croaked, her voice dry and hoarse. Her heart ached, _Please, I just need to know—_

A strange voice spoke from her left. "Ingrid, your injuries are _very_ severe," he informed her. "You need to lie still."

She blinked more tears from her eyes and kept staring at the blurry picture of her father, willing her voice to work properly. "F-Fillm-Fillmore…" was all she could manage to say. This had been all her fault. She may not have planted the bomb or set it off, but she had been the target. The catalyst. And if her best friend had been caught in the crossfire – especially after she had left his side to keep that from happening – the blood would have been on her hands.

 _His_ blood. And that wasn't something that she could live with.

Nathan looked down at his daughter, at the tears falling down her face, and his heart twisted in his chest. His thoughts quickly wandered to the conversation he'd had with the teenager in question when he had first arrived at the ER. _"Whatever you do, do not tell Ingrid I'm here,"_ he'd said. _"She'll panic."_

The burdened father looked down at his teary-eyed daughter, completely torn about telling her the truth. Fillmore was right about one thing: if he told her that Fillmore had been admitted – even if it were only for overnight observation and antibiotics – she would panic. But looking at her now, the way she was ready to bound out of bed in search of her best friend, despite the fact it would be physically _impossible_ for her to do so, he knew that not telling her anything would be worse than telling her _something_. So, he took her hand in his own and gave it a comforting squeeze, leaned a little closer to her, and brushed a bloody tear which had just fallen from her cheek.

"He's going to be fine, honey," he told her, hoping that statement would be vague enough to satisfy her for the time being.

It wasn't.

Her heart rate shot up, and he watched her expression change from fear to agony as she cried out in grief. Every worst-case scenario she could think of flew through her head as guilt tore through her body, ripping her heart to shreds. _No he can't be dead please god no—_

Nathan gripped her face in his hands as she incoherently cried into the mask. "Honey, trust me, he's gonna be fine," he repeated to her. "And he can't wait to get in here and see you." She shook her head in his hands, curling up on herself as gunshots resounded in her head.

"No, t-the gunshots—"

"He's _fine,_ Ingrid." Despite feeling like something was pulling her down to the bed, Ingrid continued to try and get up, but to no avail. "And you're going to be fine," he added as her heart rate slowed down. Nathan looked up to Dr. Rand, who was pulling out a syringe from the IV. He looked back at Nathan, who was eyeing him curiously.

"It's a sedative," he told him. Nathan sighed and looked back down at Ingrid, who had relaxed back into her mattress, but continued to cry and mumble Fillmore's name. She moaned as sleep washed over her and pulled her eyes shut to the vision of her best friend's lifeless body lying in the rubble next to her.

 _All your fault,_ that deep, menacing voice told her.

She moaned as she succumbed to the darkness.

 **xXxXx**

 **Yeahhhh it's a short chapter, but I'm gonna make up for it with the next one. Please let me know what you think! Can't wait to hear from you guys!**

 **ellameno**


	7. Second Chance

**I really do need to stop saying "I'll have something new soon". It's much too loose of a deadline haha xD Sorry for the wait, but I hope you enjoy! You get to see a lot of Fillmore in this one. Please let me know what you think, all feedback is welcome!**

 **xXxXx**

Between Heartbeats

Chapter Seven – Second Chance

Fillmore woke up the next morning with a raging migraine, a tingling sensation in his lungs, and, the moment he remembered where he was, an ache in his heart. His hospital room was dimly lit by the daylight peeking in from the edges of the closed curtain, and his ears caught the vague sound of carts being pushed by nurses on the other side of his door. His right arm throbbed, and he looked down at it disdainfully before he reached over to turn on the lamp at his bedside. He snatched his phone from the table top and tapped the home button to reveal half a dozen text messages. Hope inflating in his chest, he scanned through them, praying that he saw mention of Ingrid's condition in any of them.

He didn't.

His heart sank. He tossed his phone bitterly onto his lap, messages unread, and leaned back into the pillows with a hand pinching the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath as his eyes started to burn, despite the fact he was alone. _You don't have anyone to hide from,_ he reminded himself, but he glared back at the ceiling. The lack of information was eating him alive. The incessant worry still pressed against his chest, like the weight of the world.

She _was_ his world. And he could be in the process of losing her without even knowing it. Granted, he'd be discharging first thing in that morning, but there was no guarantee that he'd be able to see her, or even that there was any update on her. He had a sinking feeling that his parents would force him to go home first – although, he had to admit that nothing sounded more appealing than _that_ – but he didn't want to leave the hospital any longer than he had to, just in case…

He shook that terrible thought from his head. _God_ , he just wanted to see her.

He tapped the home button again to get a glimpse of the time – 8:09 – and sat back up in bed. His parents would be there soon. He flung the blankets off him and let his legs hang limply off the side of the mattress when, right on cue, there was a light knock at the door.

"Yeah," he called as he reached for his glasses on the nightstand and put them on.

The door creaked open quietly, and his mother's head peeked through. "You're awake," she stated, a wary expression crossing her face. She entered the room cautiously, his father close behind her.

Fillmore eyed them curiously. "Good morning to you, too," he greeted, reaching for the water bottle next to the clock. He twisted off the cap and took a drink.

Karim's eyes darted from Joelle to his son. "Nathan hasn't told you?"

Fillmore nearly choked on the water as his heart plummeted to the floor. Adrenaline surged through his body, but he stifled the panic only long enough to ask, with a shaking voice, "Told me what?"

xXxXx

Three hours, a shower, and a change of clothes later, Fillmore walked back into the hospital alone. His palms were sweating in the pockets of his jeans, but he didn't know where else to put them. The reception area buzzed with activity, but he weaved through the bustling crowd with ease. There was something comforting about being so invisible, especially after being confined to a bed overnight and monitored every hour. He pulled out his phone to text Nathan that he was here before he slipped between two groups of people and into the awaiting elevator. He got a response from him almost immediately. _Tenth floor, I'm at the desk._ His heart raced as he pressed the button for the tenth floor and the elevator doors closed in front of him.

Alone in the elevator, he could've sworn his heartbeat was echoing off the walls, and he pushed the sleeves of his dark jacket up to his elbows as the temperature in the elevator increased in sync with his anxiety. He took refuge in the corner and drew in a deep breath, wincing as a light burning spread through his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut. _You can do this, Fillmore,_ he told himself, but his heart grew heavy as a voice in the back of his mind told him what he was about to see was his fault. _You should've been there to protect her,_ it said. _You're the reason she's here._

He shook the voice from his head as the elevator came to a stop on the third floor, opening to let other passengers inside. Realistically, he knew that Canton was the only person to blame. The doctor had even said, if it hadn't been for the three of them going after her, Ingrid most likely would have died right there in the rubble. According to everyone else, he was a hero. _If they only knew,_ he thought.

Maybe he was being melodramatic, but something told him that Ingrid had a much longer road to recovery than everyone realized. Ingrid's sanity had been slowly unravelling ever since the treasury bust, and he feared the explosion was the final straw. Nathan told him over the phone that she'd woken up in the middle of the night – a shock to everyone – and almost came undone as her memory fired up. Apparently, she was worried about _him._ Considering that, Nathan had convinced her doctors to let him visit her with the argument that, if she woke up again panicking about Fillmore, the only person she'd believe would be _Fillmore_. He'd probably be the only person who could keep her calm in that situation.

However, Fillmore wasn't sure he'd be up to the task. Reality hadn't quite set in yet. He thought that going back home to shower, to a home cooked meal in a familiar, routine environment, might help, but he still felt high. Like he was still living in a nightmare. He'd spent the last twenty-four hours obsessing and worrying about her condition and, now that the time had come to visit her, he feared the worst. He knew seeing her would be the pinch on his arm to wake him up, the splash of cold water against his face. Could he keep it together? For Ingrid's sake? The elevator dinged its arrival at the tenth floor.

He was about to find out.

The doors slid open, and Fillmore's burning eyes instantly fell on Nathan Third, who was leaning against the front desk and turned around at his arrival. They shared a brief, solemn expression before Fillmore left the elevator and approached him. Nathan held out his arms and Fillmore embraced him.

"I'm so glad you're okay, Neil," he whispered to the boy, squeezing him tightly before letting him go. Their eyes met, both heavy with exhaustion and worry, and Nathan squeezed Fillmore's uninjured arm encouragingly. "I know Ingrid will be, too."

Fillmore gulped back the lump threatening to climb up his throat at the sound of her name. "I'll feel a lot better when _she_ does," he admitted.

Nathan nodded. "You and me both, kiddo." A blonde man, donning a tie and white lab coat, turned the corner and headed straight for them. Fillmore straightened up, his heart pounding against his chest. The middle-aged man smiled as he approached.

"I take it you're the infamous Cornelius Fillmore?" he asked, holding out his hand for Fillmore to shake, which he did as he nodded. "I'm Dr. Rand, I'm Ingrid's surgeon. I've heard nothing but good things about you." He nodded in Nathan's direction.

"I can say the same about you," Fillmore said, shoving his hands back in his pockets, suddenly self-conscious about how clammy they were. "I don't think any of us can thank you enough for getting her this far," he continued.

"And don't worry," Dr. Rand reassured him with a nod, "we're going to be here for the rest of the way as well. Are you ready to see her?"

Fillmore's heart skipped a beat and, for a moment, he forgot how to speak. Of course he _wanted_ to, but wanting to and being ready to were two very different things. He wasn't sure how to answer. He bit back the lump crawling up his throat but nodded. Dr. Rand turned and tossed his head in the opposite direction. "Right this way." Fillmore looked over at Ingrid's exhausted father, who nodded at him and patted his shoulder encouragingly, before following the doctor. "Now, I know that you're probably familiar with her condition for the most part," Dr. Rand began, looking over his shoulder at Fillmore, "but I want to prepare you personally."

Fillmore shrugged. "I've had the feeling that no amount prep is gonna make this any easier," he admitted. "Not sure what else there is to say."

"Well, when she woke up last night, I noticed a thing or two I'm not sure they relayed to you, and it will be useful to know when she wakes up again," Rand explained as they reached the ICU doors. He took off his badge and scanned it in a device by the door, and the door slowly opened. "When Ingrid was thrown against the wall, her head was one of the first things to hit, and we think it damaged her eyesight."

Fillmore's stomach dropped. "Wait, what?" he asked, briefly glancing at Nathan in disbelief. "You mean, you think she's blind?"

Rand shook his head. "No—" Fillmore let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding "—at least not completely. Her pupils reacted to my flashlight, but I think that's all she can see – light and dark. But the impact must have also damaged her tear ducts, which isn't entirely serious, but it can be disturbing when you see it."

"See what?"

Nathan sighed next to him. "She cried blood."

Fillmore's eyes widened as Dr. Rand explained. "It's a fairly rare condition called haemolacria, which is a mild enough condition that can heal on its own, but not always. And, lastly, while only one of her eardrums ruptured from the blast, I'm concerned that her hearing in both ears have been compromised, since she was hardly responding to any of us. So, if you're speaking to her and she grows frustrated, try not to be alarmed."

"You think that'll correct itself, too?" Fillmore asked.

Dr. Rand came to a stop at the beginning of another hallway and shrugged. "Only time will tell," he said. Fillmore nodded in understanding and looked around. Each room had a large window next to the door, but each curtain was drawn. His heart raced and he started to sweat; Ingrid could be in any one of those rooms. _She could be right here_. Fillmore circled around on his feet, terrified of who could be lying in the bed on the opposite sides of each curtain, before Nathan stopped him and pointed.

"She's right in there," he said softly, pointing at the room directly across from them. Fillmore's heart drummed in his ears as his eyes caught the door, slightly ajar, calling his name. His widened eyes fixated on the door, petrified to go anywhere near it. The burdening weight of reality bubbled in the back of his mind, finally threatening to manifest itself as he came to terms with what was waiting for him on the opposite side of that door. _This is it,_ he thought to himself. _You can't deny this anymore._

Nathan squeezed his shoulder. "I know this is hard, Neil, but Ingrid needs you," he told him. Fillmore's eyes burned as his words cut through his heartbeat ringing in his ears. He bit his lip, in vain, as a silent tear fell. "Ingrid needs you by her side," Nathan continued, tearfully. Fillmore nodded. He knew that, but his feet still felt glued to the ground, no matter how badly he wanted them to move. He felt overwhelmed with fear and uncertainty… it paralyzed him.

"And, whether you'll admit it or not, I _know_ that you need _her,_ " Nathan finished, his voice breaking at the end.

Fillmore's heart skipped a beat and he squeezed his eyes shut. God, he couldn't have been more right. Ingrid was his best friend, his other half, his partner. She was a constant in his life, a fixed point, someone he could always count on. And, somewhere along the way, she'd become the one person he didn't think he could live without. And she was right on the other side of that goddamn door, fighting for her life, and waiting for him to show up at her side. With a deep breath, he stepped forward. He stood in front of the door, with his head down, and he heard the faint beeping of Ingrid's heart beyond the door. His heart ached at the sound. _That means she_ is _okay. She_ is _alive. And she_ needs _you._ Fillmore, with a shaking hand, reached up and gently pushed the door.

His heart plunged into his stomach, and he stifled a sob with a fist to his mouth.

Ingrid looked so tiny compared to the machines by her bed, which were hooked up to her in numerous places. Bandages covered most of what he could see of her, and small stitches littered her face, which was considerably paler than normal. Her raven hair, splayed across her pillow, did little to make her seem less… broken.

Fillmore braced himself against the wall as he felt his knees weaken. _This really happened. You really almost lost her._ He felt a hand on his back, but he ignored it as he gaped at her lying unconscious on the hospital bed. Images of her lying motionless in the rubble of the school, moaning in pain, flashed in his mind. He pushed himself off the doorframe and made his way over to her, suddenly desperate to touch her, to make sure she was real. He loomed over her, staring directly at her eyes, which were closed and bruised. "Ingrid?" he whispered, hoping she could hear him and open her eyes, but, to his dismay, they remained closed. Tears fell freely from his eyes, which travelled from her face, down to her shoulder, her bandaged arm, and, finally, to her limp hand. _God,_ how he wanted – no, _needed –_ to hold her. He blindly reached behind him for the chair Ariella had been living in and pulled it towards him to sit down. Slowly, he took her hand, which was cold to the touch, in both of his, and reality came crashing down on him.

 _I almost lost her._

He brought her hand to his lips, lightly kissing her fingers. "Oh, god, Ingrid…" he whispered into them as he squeezed his eyes shut. His tears dripped onto her fingertips, but he was too overwhelmed by the guilt burrowing into the depths of his chest where his heart was. He only left her alone for minute… and he almost _lost her._ That harrowing thought cycled through his mind on repeat, fueling the anguish pouring out of his eyes in waves. The last few months, she'd been all alone. She'd been alone undercover, then alone with her nightmares, alone in her panic, and, even though he did his best to be there for her, she'd been alone in the end… He just thanked _god_ it hadn't turned out to be the end of _her_.

In that moment, as he looked back up at her, he felt a sense of relief for the first time in over twenty-four hours; despite being the target of a killer, it _hadn't_ beenthe end for her. Ingrid _lived_. The road to recovery was going to be a long one, but she was going to make it. She'd been given a second chance.

No – _he_ had been given a second chance. A second chance to be there for her the way he promised her he would be. To protect her.

And, by god, he wasn't going to fail her again.

He kissed the back of her hand. "I'm right here, mama," he told her, rubbing his thumbs in comforting circles on her hand. "And you don't ever have to be alone again." He buried his teary eyes into her fingers. "I promise."

 **xXxXx**

 **I literally love Fillmore and Ingrid's relationship so much. Writing it really gave me the opportunity to appreciate it. This was sooooo hard for me because I didn't want like an OOC tortured-Fillmore thing, but I tried to be as realistic as possible. Please let me know what you think! I know I said I needed to stop saying it, but… I'LL HAVE MORE FOR YOU SOON XD**

 **ellameno**


	8. Desperate Times

**First off, I want to give a huge shout-out to AmeliaNoire, whose insight has** _ **insanely**_ **helped me complete this chapter. I really appreciate all your kind words, and for taking your time to share your thoughts and experiences with me. This chapter is dedicated to you! I really hope you like it!**

 **But I also want to thank the rest of you as well. I've gotten separate PMs from a few of you with such heartfelt words, I feel so honored. I** _ **love**_ **hearing from you guys and your stories. I never thought writing this would help reach some of you in the terms of validation and whatnot and I** _ **really**_ **appreciate you guys for telling me so. That being said, please keep reaching out to me with questions, comments, experiences of your own, anything that can help me keep these stories as real and relatable as possible. That's** _ **all**_ **I've ever wanted.**

 **Thank you guys for being amazing! I really hope you like this update. I've been working hard on it. Please let me know what you think!**

 **xXxXx**

Between Heartbeats

Chapter Eight – Desperate Times

It took them most of the day, but, after a heartfelt reassurance from Fillmore, Nathan and Ariella finally left the hospital early in the evening and retreated to their home for hot showers and, hopefully, a good night's sleep in their own beds. Meanwhile, Fillmore stayed glued to the chair at Ingrid's bedside, clinging to the hope that he would have good news for them when they return first thing the next morning. It was nearing midnight when, with dwindling spirits, Fillmore turned off the late-night news with a sigh. Images of the destroyed school were circulating on every channel; images that had long been burned into his brain. He didn't want to think about them any more than he had to.

Those images haunted him every time he closed his eyes… and he couldn't imagine what it would be like for Ingrid. He propped his elbow on the arm of his chair and rested his chin in his hand, letting his eyes skim over her unconscious form as he wracked his brain, for the thousandth time that day, for solutions to that issue. Of course, it hadn't even had the chance to _become_ an issue, but he wanted to be ready to help however he could. He'd failed her, not once, but twice before, and he wasn't ready to do it again.

 _But,_ god _, how can I help her win a war with her own_ mind _?_ he thought, shaking his head. His eyes fell on her limp hand, and the remnants of ash hiding in the crevices of her fingernails, and he ached to scrub it all away, along with all the traumatic memories plaguing her mind. Her finger twitched, as if it knew it were being watched, and Fillmore's eyes instantly flew over to her face, watching for any sign of consciousness. To his disappointment, her eyes remained closed.

He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and sank back into his chair. _Damn_ , he thought, as a yawn escaped from his mouth, _worrying is exhausting_. He rubbed his tired eyes, contemplating moving to the couch to get some sleep, when his phone started buzzing. His emotions split (which they'd been doing a lot lately) between confusion and annoyance as he glared down at his pocket – _who was calling this late?_ With a sigh, he stretched out his leg to pull out his phone and he looked at the ID.

 _Ah, shit,_ he thought, suddenly wracked with guilt. He should have called him a long time ago. He hit the green button and raised the phone to his ear. "Hey, Wayne."

Wayne let out a sigh of relief on the other end. " _You have_ no _clue how great it is to hear your voice, dude,_ " he greeted. Fillmore leaned on his knees and ran his hand over his head.

"It's good to hear yours, too," he replied, his weary eyes trailing back to where Ingrid lay. _I just wish I could hear yours,_ he admitted, silently.

" _I'm sorry I took so long to call, I've been on assignment,_ " Wayne started.Fillmore wanted to interrupt him, to tell him he didn't need to explain, but he was too tired to do so; he let him continue. " _I haven't had contact with anyone. I heard about a bomb at a school but didn't know where until thirty seconds ago. Are you okay? What the hell happened?_ "

Fillmore sighed. He was tired of answering that question, but he had to bite back his annoyance. Wayne was completely in the dark about the entire situation – he was probably just as worried about Fillmore as Fillmore was about Ingrid. "Physically, yeah," Fillmore said, then paused. He knew Wayne would press for details. While Wayne wasn't his closest friend – Ingrid proudly owned that title – he was definitely the oldest, but how much should he reveal to him? His hesitation didn't stem from distrust, because Fillmore trusted him with his life… but he wasn't sure it was his place. This entire ordeal was centered around Ingrid. It was her story to tell, not his.

But, Fillmore had never felt more backed into a corner than he did in that hospital room. He was the kind of guy who always knew what to do. He always had a solution, a plan B, and a way out. However, for the first time since he could remember, he was absolutely, completely, 100% clueless. Every attempt he made to string together a plan in his head was made in vain; he was so overwhelmed with confusion, worry, and uncertainty that he couldn't even think straight.

" _Fillmore…_ " Wayne started, snapping Fillmore out of his thoughts. Wayne paused, hesitant to continue.

"Yeah, man?" Fillmore prompted, but was met with a brief silence.

" _The news…_ " Fillmore couldn't help but roll his eyes. _The goddamn news strikes again_ , he thought bitterly. Wayne continued, fear evident in his tone, " _…they said there was an-an unconfirmed fatality._ "

Fillmore's heart dropped. He knew they were talking about Ingrid. That was the plan – they all believed she would pull through, but they didn't want Canton to know that. Not yet, at least. They wanted to leave that decision up to her. If the police could frame the narrative to make it seem like they were hiding the news of her death from him, Canton just might buy it. But Wayne didn't need to.

So how the hell was he supposed to break _that_ news to him? Fillmore took a deep breath. "Nah, there weren't any fatalities," he started, and paused as Wayne released his breath.

" _Thank God,_ " he said.

Fillmore looked over at Ingrid forlornly. "Not yet, anyway," he blurted. He shook his head at his own negativity, resenting his own words as they left his mouth, bitter on his tongue. _Yeah,_ that's _how you break that kinda news, asshole,_ he scolded himself. How could he say something like that? What had gotten into him? Everyone was convinced that she would pull through, and her condition was improving. _So why the hell are you so convinced you're somehow gonna lose her?_ He instinctively reached for her – worried that, if he wasn't touching her, she might not be real – and rested his hand on her wrist, wrapping his fingers around it softly. As he ran his thumb across the back of her knuckles, he marveled at how small her pale hands were compared to his. How had he never noticed that before?

" _Not yet?_ " Wayne asked. _"What do you mean?_ "

Fillmore's hand tightened around her wrist, and the fist around his heart did the same. He squeezed his eyes shut as they started to burn, and he cursed at himself. Why was it getting harder and harder to keep it together? "She's in critical condition," he answered, nearly choking on the lump in his throat. He prayed Wayne didn't notice. "The doctors are optimistic, but she's in pretty bad shape regardless."

" _Who?_ " Wayne asked, his tone suddenly dark.

Fillmore opened his mouth to answer him, but the words fell silent on his tongue. A part of him still couldn't accept that it was _his_ Ingrid lying in the bed next to him. That this entire thing was just a really shitty dream and he'd wake up any moment to his partner nudging him awake after he'd fallen asleep on a stack of paperwork. He couldn't accept the amount of pain Ingrid would be in when she woke up, the amount of therapy everyone was going to need, and how many goddamn times someone asked him how he was holding up. The truth was that he wasn't… He couldn't accept that this actually _happened_.

But, when he squeezed her wrist and felt the faint pulsing of her heartbeat beneath her skin, he knew that he had to. He had to say it. He had to say her name.

"I-It's Ingrid, man," he murmured with broken words. A tidal wave of emotions swept over him as Wayne swore on the other line. He let go of her hand for a moment to wipe away the tears from his eyes before they could fall, and quickly took her hand back in his as his friend asked him what happened.

Fillmore blanked. He knew exactly what happened; he'd been there for the whole thing. But, no one else knew _everything_. The squad knew that Canton had an unparalleled hatred for Ingrid after she betrayed him all those months ago. They all knew that his obsession with getting revenge ran so deep, he resorted to taking his time. He was patient to mess with her head by using all the things she loved and tainting them, turning them into things that – even though the intent was to kill her – will now haunt her forever. Her father knew that there was a deranged man out in the world who possessed homicidal desires towards his daughter. But, no one else _knew._

And it was eating Fillmore alive.

He hadn't been able to express _exactly_ what was clawing at him from the inside out. He'd almost spilled it to his mother the day before and couldn't shake the guilt from it, despite managing to stop himself. _It's not your story to tell,_ he had to keep reminding himself, as everyone kept prodding him to open up as he waited bedside for Ingrid to wake up. "The only way to cope with trauma is to talk about it," people kept saying, but it only made him want to scream. The only person he was worried about coping was Ingrid and, even so, he had no idea how to make it easier for her.

 _But, Wayne might,_ he thought, briefly recalling many letters and phone calls involving Wayne's long-developed interest in psychology. He had been considering switching career paths from detective to criminal psychologist. He even mentioned wanting to contact Ingrid one occasion as he was studying "intellectual phenomena", or something like that. _Maybe…_ But, Fillmore stopped that train of thought dead in its tracks. _It's_ not _your story to tell, Fillmore,_ he told himself for the umpteenth time. Even though Wayne was one of the few he could trust with his life, it still felt wrong. Like he'd be betraying her somehow.

But, while it might not have been his story to tell, it _was_ his burden to keep. Whatever hardships Ingrid faced, Fillmore faced them with her, whether she wanted him to or not. She never asked him to do so, and would often protest, but she was his best friend. He wanted to always have her back whenever and however he could. He's never betrayed her confidence, and he didn't plan to start.

But, _god_ , that secret was cutting him too deep. It killed him to see her in that elevator so traumatized, so _haunted_ , and he knew that the explosion would only make it worse once she regained consciousness.

" _Fillmore?"_ Wayne called, snapping Fillmore out of his thoughts. _"You still there?"_

"Yeah," Fillmore sniffed and let go of Ingrid's hand, resting his head in his now-free hand and staring at the ground. He knew what he had to do – for the sake of his _own_ sanity – but that didn't mean he was going to feel good about it. "It's just—" he took a deep breath "—it's a long story, man."

" _Hey, I'm all ears,"_ Wayne encouraged.

Fillmore bit his lip, pressed his phone against his chest, and squeezed his eyes shut. _Just let it go, man,_ he tried to tell himself. _She'd understand._ He looked back over at her, lying defenseless and strapped to machines, and shook his head. It was just all too much. He _had_ to let some of it out.

"Please, don't hate me, mama," he whispered before bringing the phone back up to his ear. "You remember around last Christmas, I told you about Ingrid going undercover?"

For a moment, Wayne stayed silent as he recalled that conversation. _"When you said the story was 'long', you weren't kidding, were you?"_ he finally asked.

Fillmore scoffed at his meager attempt to lighten the mood. "I wish I was, man," he said.

xXxXx

As Fillmore finished his tale, he felt some of the tension gradually lift off his shoulders. Wayne had long been stunned into silence, and Fillmore took that time to breathe. Despite the residual guilt beating in his chest for sharing a secret not his own, he felt so much _better._ Of course, he hadn't gotten to the asking-for-help part, which would come soon enough. Meanwhile, as Wayne silently processed all that information, Fillmore soaked in the silence, grateful to have someone to share his inner turmoil with.

" _Damn,"_ Wayne broke the silence. Fillmore nodded silently. _"And no one else knows any of that?"_

Fillmore shook his head. "With the exception of the school counselor, no," he confirmed. Wayne whistled in awe but didn't say anything else. Another long silence filled the air as the information settled, and Fillmore waited patiently – almost, dreadfully – for what Wayne would say next.

" _What do you need?"_ he finally asked.

Fillmore gulped. He hadn't expected to jump to it so quickly, but, then again, Wayne could always read him like a book, even if they weren't face-to-face. He needed plenty of things – including, but not limited to sleep, a muscle relaxer, and a massage – but, more than anything, he needed a clue.

"Honestly, I feel like I'm in over my head here," Fillmore admitted, rubbing the top of his head.

" _What do you mean?"_ Wayne asked.

Fillmore exhaled, suddenly growing frustrated, but kept his voice down in fear of waking Ingrid. "I mean that I have no idea how I'm supposed to help her. When she started panicking in the elevator all I could do was fucking _stare_ at her," he spat, and stood up, pacing the room. "She asked for my help, but I have no idea how to do it with that damn _memory_ of hers. I can't give her any of the advice or help I would give someone else because it's different for her. Anything I can say will be useless. I just…" Fillmore paused at the door and leaned his hand against the frame, staring down at the doorknob as if it would bite him if he got too close. He wasn't sure where his frantic thoughts were leading him. He felt stuck, powerless. She had reached out to him, but he wasn't sure if he was fit to catch her before rock bottom.

" _You've saved her once already, Fillmore,"_ Wayne told him, and Fillmore shook his head. _"You can't save her if you can't save yourself."_

Fillmore scoffed. "Save myself?" he asked. "From what?"

" _Guilt."_ Fillmore almost laughed – more out of confusion than humor – but Wayne didn't give him a chance to before he continued, _"Fillmore, you have the greatest savior complex of anyone I've ever seen. I mean, I know a psychology professor at Vanderbilt who would_ love _to observe and study you. You'd give him a run for his money, for sure."_ Fillmore scoffed lightheartedly. Wayne could be a little dramatic, but he didn't doubt that claim for a second. Wayne continued, _"You hold yourself personally responsible for the wellbeing of everyone around you and you beat the shit out of yourself if you fail. You_ always _have to save everyone, but it's not your job."_

Anger bubbled in Fillmore's chest. "But this isn't _everyone_ we're talking about here, Wayne," he started, pointing behind him towards where Ingrid lay, "it's fucking _Ingrid_."

" _And she is more important to you than everyone else combined,"_ Wayne replied, effectively stopping Fillmore in his tracks. _"If anything ever happened to her that, in some impossible way, you could have prevented, you might go so far as to self-destruct."_ That truth hit Fillmore in the chest like a ton of bricks. He wasn't wrong. He looked over at Ingrid with burning eyes, yearning for an answer he wasn't sure he would get. _"You_ have _to figure out how to accept that you can only do so much for her. I know it's hard for you to hear, and even harder for you to do, but you can't help her if you're self-destructing. She cares about you just as much as you care about her, and if she sees that you're killing yourself to fix her, she'll do the same for you, and that's not gonna help either of you."_ Fillmore gulped back the lump crawling up his throat and he walked back over to her, looking down at her glumly. Everything Wayne was telling him was true, but it didn't make it easier for Fillmore to accept.

"So, what do I do, man?" Fillmore asked, weakly, as he reached for her hand.

Wayne sighed. _"Personally, I think you need to tell someone. A professional,"_ he elaborated before Fillmore could refuse. _"Photographic memory, it's… it's a monster of its own."_

"Yeah," Fillmore sniffed, "didn't you study it or something? Ask Ingrid about it?"

" _Yeah, I did. It's a very mysterious phenomenon, a blessing and a curse,"_ he explained. _"It's a little different for everyone, but she told me her memory is kind of like a photo album. She can skim through all the pictures, but she can't really select what memories come to her and which ones don't. She can be searching for an isolated memory, but she can accidentally trigger another one if it relates to whatever it is she's looking for, even if the similarities are minute and insignificant in nature."_

"And _that's_ why she has to concentrate so much," Fillmore realized.

" _Bingo,"_ Wayne confirmed. Then he sighed, reluctant to continue. _"That being said, Ingrid's mind is always subconsciously working to make connections to stored memories – that's just the way it's wired. And as far as trauma goes, when memories are fresh, every little detail, even mundane, everyday ones, can trigger a memory and could result in a nervous meltdown, causing sensory overloads, panic attacks, fight-or-flight responses, even blackouts. That goes for anyone experiencing any kind of trauma or PTSD, but you can imagine that it's infinitely worse for someone with a memory like hers. It's not something that_ you _can help stop."_

Fillmore plopped into his chair with a heavy sigh. "That's the issue, man, I _know_ can't stop any of it. That's what's killing me," he admitted, sinking back into the chair. "If I can't stop it, then what the hell _can_ I do?"

" _Well, convincing her to get professional help should be priority,"_ he suggested. _"I can ask some of the psychologists I met at the Tennessee Psychological Association Convention if they know of any good ones in your area."_

Beside himself, Fillmore chuckled. "Well, _that_ was a mouthful," he joked, feeling some of the weight lift off his chest. "That doesn't even sound like a real thing."

Wayne laughed, heartily. _"You know, you're not the only one who's said that,"_ he said, before growing serious again. _"But, I also think that being there to help ground her when she needs it would help her, too. It sounds like that was pretty effective in the elevator."_

Fillmore scoffed. "As much as I like that idea, do you really think she's gonna like me hovering over her every second of every day 'just in case'?"

" _Yeah, probably not,"_ Wayne trailed off, and Fillmore waited for another suggestion. _"But, until she starts seeing someone, I really do think that someone, if not always you, needs to be with her as much as possible."_

Fillmore's gut churned. There must've been more to that statement than Wayne was letting on. He swallowed the nerves in his throat before asking, "What makes you say that?"

Wayne sighed. He truly didn't want to deliver _that_ theory, but, if Fillmore was going to keep Ingrid safe, he couldn't protect her simply from her memory – he'd have to protect her from herself as well. _"Grounding can be a very effective technique, but it shouldn't be her only go-to coping skill. When grounding is used too often, people tend to grow tolerant towards it. When nothing else seems to work, they might resort to… creating their own physical sensations to keep their feet on the ground."_ Wayne paused, hoping that Fillmore would catch on to what he was trying to say.

For a moment, he wasn't sure what he was hinting at, but, once it dawned on him, he looked over at Ingrid incredulously. "You mean like self-harm?"

Wayne sighed, partly out of relief that he didn't have to say it himself, and partly out of discontent. He knew the thought of Ingrid intentionally hurting herself wasn't something Fillmore would be willing to accept. _"Fighting your own memories can be extremely overwhelming_ and _exhausting,"_ he started, rubbing his eyes. _"Sometimes, as a last resort, people feel the need to drown it out with raw, physical pain. They might see blood, or bruises, and they feel the pain associated with it, and that's the only way they can tell what's real from what's not."_

Fillmore shook his head. "No, not Ingrid. She wouldn't do that."

" _You have no idea what she would do, Fillmore,"_ Wayne argued, but Fillmore kept shaking his head. _"The longer she fights, the more exhausted she'll get, and she might get desperate. You know what they say about desperate times."_

Fillmore started to refute him but fell silent. Wayne had a point. He and Ingrid might have been close, and they might know each other better than they know themselves, but things had changed. Their world (quite literally) had erupted into chaos, flipped upside down, before crashing down into pieces all around them. He was sure he would have to deal with his own inner turmoil when the dust settled, but no one had gone through more than Ingrid had. The rug had been ripped out from under her long before the explosion… now she had to rebuild herself from the ground up. Wayne was right: Fillmore had no idea what she would do. Ingrid probably didn't know herself.

" _You still there?"_ Wayne asked, timidly.

Fillmore nodded. "Yeah," he muttered.

" _I'm really sorry, man. I know this can't be easy."_

"Don't be sorry. I'm the one who asked," Fillmore said, rubbing his hand anxiously on his knee. "Besides, if the truth hurts, then it needed to be said."

Wayne scoffed. _"Yeah, you got that right."_ He sighed but didn't push further. A comfortable, tired silence lingered in the air between them. Ingrid's heart monitor beat steadily in the background, echoing ominously in the receiver against Fillmore's ear. _"I hate to let you go, man, but I'm like, two hours ahead of you."_ Fillmore glanced at his watch and swore – it was nearly two a.m.

"Shit, man, I didn't even think about that," he apologized.

" _To be honest, I didn't either, but I'll get over it,"_ Wayne joked, suppressing a yawn. _"Let me know how Ingrid's doing, okay? And call me if you need anything."_

"Yeah, you got it, Wayne," Fillmore agreed. "Thanks for the advice, man."

" _Always, Fillmore. Late."_

As Fillmore hung up the phone, his eyes caught the foot of Ingrid's bed, and, suddenly, he ached to be in his own. But, a couch would have to do. He stood up, his joints creaking in protest, and sauntered over to the couch, almost robotically.

He felt better. A thousand times more exhausted, and just as scared as he'd been before, but he felt better. He brought his arms over his head, stretching out the last of the tension in his shoulders before kicking off his shoes and lying down. Before that phone call, he'd had no clue where to go from there. Deep down, a part of him knew that he couldn't be the savior that Ingrid needed, and Wayne had made sure Fillmore didn't ignore that. He wasn't sure he would – or could – make peace with that, but he wouldn't know for sure until she woke up. Plus, Wayne was right about one thing: as much as Fillmore hated to admit it, he _did_ feel way too responsible for Ingrid's wellbeing. That fact resonated with him much more than any of the other things Wayne said. He couldn't be the friend that Ingrid deserved if he chipped away at his own mental and physical wellbeing for her sake.

So, as much as he didn't want to leave her alone, Fillmore settled into the couch cushions for some much-needed rest. "I'll see you in the morning, mama," he murmured as he turned his face into the couch and closed his eyes.

 **xXxXx**

 **I couldn't resist bringing Wayne into the mix. I feel like no one's really explored his character enough, so we'll see if he plays into Fillmore and Ingrid's story later on. Sorry for taking so long to update, I just really wanted everything to be perfect. Thanks so much for reading guys, I hope I get to hear from you!**

 **ellameno**


	9. Silhouettes

**Here comes that chapter we have** _ **all**_ **been waiting for, myself included (seriously, this one kinda took a while to wrap up). I hope I don't disappoint!**

 **xXxXx**

Between Heartbeats

Chapter Nine – Silhouettes

She was acutely aware that something was wrong. She knew what unconsciousness felt like: thick, never-ending darkness. If she could reach out with her arms, it would feel barren, but her body was heavy, frozen in place. Correction: the space that her body _should've been_ taking up felt heavy. She knew that she had a body, but she couldn't tell where it was. She should've felt air against her skin, oxygen passing in and out of her lungs, tasted saliva on her tongue, but she didn't feel _anything_. As if all that was left of her was a ghost; a wandering soul, no body to call home. The air around her was stale, as if she'd been there for a long time. She wondered if she should be worried about that.

She knew she wasn't sleeping; she never dreamt of pure darkness. Her mind always had too much to process to fall into a dreamless sleep. Something _must_ have been wrong. The darkness _itself_ felt wrong… or maybe, just foreign. Far-off screams echoed through the night, and a faint rumble, like falling stone, caught her ear.

 _No,_ she concluded as a chill shot through the abyss and the rumble grew closer, _wrong._ The heavy beat of a drum reverberated in the space her skull should've been, and the screams grew louder, shouting her name. The temperature increased, and her senses started to return. Heat tickled her skin, dancing all around, and a scent bitter and pungent – much like boiling paint and burning plastic – filled her nose.

 _What the hell is happening?_

 _She peeled her eyes open. She wasn't sure_ what _she was expecting to see, but – as she_ had _expected – it seemed so wrong. Unfathomable. Directly above her, a gaping hole in the ceiling of somewhere familiar captured her attention. Smoke slithered across what was left of the roof towards the hole, writhing for freedom, and disappeared into the crevice. Fire crackled somewhere behind her, but she wasn't afraid of it. She gaped at the hole, as if the meaning of its existence would dawn on her._

" _Oh, Dee…"_

 _She shot up. The world spun around her, her vision swirling in circles with the fog, and she waited for the smoke to clear. Slowly, she pulled herself up to her feet. The chilling sound of her name echoed and faded into silence, replaced by a shrill ringing in her ears. Her hands flew up to block out the sound, but it only grew louder as she spun around to look for the source._

" _Just look at what you've done," a voice boomed over her, and she spun around once more, observing the damage all around her. Everything was in ruins: beams from the ceiling lay on the floor, concrete and metal littered the hallway –_ wait, _she thought, as she spotted busted lockers lining the walls around her,_ I'm in the school?

" _What's left of it," the voice answered from behind her._

 _She turned and, to her horror, came face-to-face with Wade Canton, clean-cut and unscathed among the rubble. Her heart leapt into her throat and she jumped back, desperate to get as far away from him as she could. "You_ stay away _from me!" she shouted at him. Adrenaline pounded through her chest, but, as much as she wanted to turn and run, she couldn't seem to move her feet as he closed the space between them with a single stride._

" _Make me," he whispered darkly, tainting her nose with the stench of stale cigarettes that almost made her gag. Her eyes immediately burned with tears as something exploded behind her. The heat from the blast blew against her back and pushed her into him, and he grabbed her fiercely by the shoulders to keep her from falling. "You know you want to," he growled hungrily into her ear, sending a fearful chill down her spine, but she shoved him away._

" _No!" she shouted and started to back away from him when she tripped over something sturdy and heavy, falling on her back and bouncing her head off the floor._

" _It's time to finish what you started, Dee," Canton taunted her as she groaned in pain. Stars danced across her vision as he slowly walked towards her, and another explosion sounded off far behind him. Turning on her stomach, she tried to bring herself up to her feet when she heard a click, and she turned back around to see him pointing the barrel of a gun down at what she had tripped on._

 _No, not what: who._

 _With his foot, he kicked Fillmore over onto his back to face her. His dark, brown eyes stared lifelessly at her as Canton pressed the barrel to his temple and said, "All this blood is on you, Dee."_

 _But, before he could pull the trigger, and before a scream could erupt from her mouth, she opened her eyes._

A strangled gasp burst from her mouth as the pain that came with consciousness slammed into her like a tidal wave. The relentless ringing in her ears was still present, echoing inside her throbbing skull, and she peeled her eyes open. _Help,_ she wanted to say to anyone who might be near, but all she could see were varying shades of darkness.

 _God,_ she lamented as pain shot down her back, _everything hurts._

Her mangled heart beat rapidly against her aching chest as the remnants of her nightmare played back before her eyes, and she cried out in agony. _No, not Fillmore, please no._ A vague memory appeared of her father assuring her that he was okay, but deep in her chest, something told her otherwise. The lifeless tint in Fillmore's eyes looked too real to be just a dream – what if it wasn't?

A faint light switched on somewhere to her right. If she hadn't been so distraught at the possible death of her best friend, she would have jumped. The room went from different shades of blues and blacks to blurry shapes of diluted colors, all tinted pink – or was it red? A moment later, she felt a firm, yet gentle, hand on her right shoulder, and, through the earsplitting ringing, she heard an all-too-familiar voice murmur her name. Another hand found its way to her left cheek, brushing away a tear before turning her face towards him. Although everything around her seemed clouded and hazy, she would recognize that silhouette anywhere.

Cornelius Fillmore grinned tearfully down at her. "…my girl," he said.

Relief overwhelmed her as the familiar sound of his voice reached her ringing ears. Was it really him? It _had_ to be, there was no other explanation. But, her mind continued to spin: how could it be? Her father made it seem like he'd been hurt, or maybe it was simply her imagination, but he was right _there._ He was talking to her, holding her, and he seemed fine. Could it be true? Or was this another dream where he'd be ripped away from her by fault of her own? She tried to reach out to touch him – if she could touch him, he _must_ be real – and he instantly grabbed her trembling hand and held it tightly in both of his own, kissing the tips of her fingers poking out between his palms.

 _He's real._

A cry escaped her lips as reality hit her. _It's really him, thank_ god, _he's really okay._ "Fillmore—" she started to say, but her voice gave out to more sobs as the pure desperation to hold him washed over her. Using her grip on his hand, she started to pull herself up to him, but he closed the space between them instantly, playfully scolding her for trying to move too much. His presence overwhelmed her as she pressed her face into the crook of his neck – the faded hint of his cologne, the warmth of his embrace, and, _god_ , the soft sound of his voice against her ear sent chills down her spine. Those sensations were all too much, but they were all she needed. Involuntarily, a strangled cry escaped from her lips, muffled by his shoulder, and he let go of her hand to hold her in his arms as tight as he could without hurting her.

"You're okay, mama," he murmured into her ear, carefully rubbing her bandaged arm to soothe her, but she only sobbed harder. She grabbed a fistful of his shirt with her free hand; scared that, if she were to let go, she'd lose him all over again. All she wanted to do was put that into words for him, but _damn,_ words hurt. _Everything_ hurt. Every move she made, every breath she took, pain shot through her whole body, but nothing hurt worse than having thought she'd been the cause of her best friend's death. Reflexively, she curled in on herself to relieve the pain and turned towards her partner for comfort, savoring his touch while she still could.

Fillmore ran his fingers carefully through her hair as she leaned into him, as if the lightest touch would shatter her, and gently kissed the top of her head. His heart twisted in his chest as she painfully sobbed into his shoulder – _god,_ he hated that sound. His own eyes burned with tears, but he squeezed them shut to will them away. _You can't break down right now,_ he scolded himself, taking a deep breath and exhaling into her dark hair. _She needs you._

"Th-The shots—" she started, but her raspy voice stopped dead in her throat, and she coughed roughly into his shoulder. He reached behind him for the cup of water on the nightstand. He almost couldn't reach without pulling away from her, which neither of them wanted. Her white-knuckled grip on his grey t-shirt remained as he brought the straw to her lips, which she shied away from before trying to speak again.

"Take a drink first, Ingrid," Fillmore interrupted softly, hoping she could hear him. "It'll help, I promise." For a moment, her bloodshot eyes flickered between him and the glass, which she couldn't quite tell apart. A part of her warned her to refuse whatever it was – how could she know what he was trying to give her? – but she dismissed it once she remembered who was holding it out to her. He tapped her lips with the straw, prompting her to part her lips, which she did.

 _God, water._

She was ravenous with thirst – she hadn't even realized how much. But, with every sip she took, she felt the pressure in her ears build, drowning out what little sound she could hear. She stopped abruptly and nudged his chest with her fist.

"There were gunshots," she stated hoarsely. Even with her mind in the jumbled state it was, that was something she didn't have to question. Fillmore put the glass back on the nightstand and sat down on the edge of the mattress, gripping the fist that held his shirt firmly in his hands as she continued, "I-I tried to warn everyone, I didn't mean—"

Fillmore shushed her with a hand to her cheek. "We know you did, mama," he reassured her, boring into her eyes. "And everybody's okay." The bruises in the corners of her eyes had darkened over the course of the night, dulling their naturally vibrant green hue. Her eyes welled with bloody tears but, even though Dr. Rand gave him time to prepare, it still unnerved him. The dark red was such a contrast to her eyes' normal electricity that it almost made him nauseous to witness, but he quickly reached up to wipe away a trail of blood that had fallen.

 _God, she must be miserable,_ he thought. Against his better judgment, he moved closer to her, desperate to hold her, and she instantly pulled herself up with a quiet cry of pain and buried her face into his shoulder once more. He wrapped his arms around her and leaned into her left ear, praying that was the ear she could hear the best out of, and whispered, "No one else was hurt or worse." She sobbed in relief before she fell into another coughing fit. Fillmore turned his head towards the door with increasing worry. He had pressed the call button the moment she gasped awake. _Where the_ hell _is Rand?_

Every atom in her body throbbed in pain, but she didn't want to leave his arms, not even as coughs tore through her throat and the metallic tang of iron coated her tongue. Her memory rushed back to lying on the ground in the school, spitting blood on the linoleum floor, willing herself to get up. _God,_ she lamented as her head throbbed against Fillmore's chest. _How could he do this how could I let this happen –_ Her heart fluttered in her chest, physically and psychologically overwhelmed. Fillmore looked down at her as her pulse on the monitor spiked. His heart plunged into his stomach as he spotted blood dripping from her lips, and flecks of it on his t-shirt. He turned back towards the door.

" _We need a doctor in here!"_ he shouted just as the door flung open.

 **xXxXx**

 **Du-du-duuuuuuuuuuuun she's not quite free and clear yet! Or is she… you'll see next time! Thank you for reading!**

 **ellameno**


	10. In the Clear

**OKAY. I SINCERELY apologize for the wait. I had to do so much research to try and get everything (semi)accurate, and honestly I'm still not 100% sure I nailed it. I suddenly went from part-time to full-time at work, I found myself not having enough time to sit down and comprehend and translate/reword everything for myself** _ **and**_ **for you guys, so I seriously do apologize.**

 **That being said, I really hope this was worth the wait for you guys, and I'm working on more stuff for you, but…. I think the time has come for this chapter to close. Cause I mean… you know how it ends anyway, haha. SO SORRY again for the wait, but I really hope you guys enjoy this, and I hope to have more for you guys here soon-ish! (Don't worry, no more insanely difficult science-y/medical stuff to take up all my writing time in the foreseeable future lol)**

 **Please let me know what you think, and if there's anything you guys would like to see me take a crack at, please shoot me a PM! I love prompts c:**

 **xXxXx**

Between Heartbeats

Chapter Ten – In the Clear

Fillmore paced the hallway in front of Ingrid's vacant room as his worried thoughts bounced off the walls around him. He rubbed his hands together nervously as he turned and walked in the other direction. His eyes caught the flecks of blood on the shoulder of his shirt, but he quickly fixed his gaze on the far wall. _Is she bleeding out? Was she drowning in her own blood or something?_ He ran his shaking hands over his face and pressed his fingers into his eyes, desperate to relieve the pressure building in his head. As stars danced across his closed eyes, he forced himself to take a deep breath.

 _Maybe I should call Nathan again,_ he thought, and stopped in his tracks. Neither Ingrid's father nor her sister woke up when he called, but, considering neither of them had slept much the past two days, it didn't shock him. He took out his phone and looked at the time. It was just past five in the morning, two hours after Rand whisked Ingrid away to undergo x-rays and CT scans, and an hour and a half after a nurse returned to tell him she was going into surgery. _What if he found something worse than he expected?_ Nausea coiled in his stomach, and he found himself looking around for a bathroom or a trashcan – whichever his eyes landed on first. But, before he could make a move in either direction, the overpowering sensation of exhaustion nearly brought him to his knees. They wobbled beneath him and he stumbled towards the wall with an outstretched hand and leaned into it. He struggled to catch his breath as he let himself slump against the wall, then slide down to the floor.

His body ached. His muscles were on fire, and his joints throbbed as he hit the floor, relieving the pressure that had been building in them from standing for so long. He looked up at the ceiling and took deeper, slower breaths, trying to pull himself back together while his phone burned a hole in his pocket.

It was all too much. It had been over two days since the explosion, but everything was already taking a toll on him, mentally _and_ physically. His thoughts, the good and the bad, raced nonstop through his head, so quickly that they'd started to blur together, and he couldn't tell them apart. It was making his head pound. He rubbed his eyes and pressed against his temples as adrenaline continued to pump through his veins. _God, she's_ gotta _be okay,_ he begged, propping his elbows on his knees and running his hands over his head. _I can't take any more of this…_ His heart throbbed in agreement and he sighed. A cage of butterflies burst in his chest as he buried his head in his hands, desperately trying to recall what it felt like to be in the clear.

A soft "ding" sounded at the end of the hall, followed by the whoosh of elevator doors. Fillmore's head shot up and over in that direction to meet the eyes of Dr. Rand, who was stepping out. _God, finally!_ He scrambled to his feet, spouting off a dozen questions before he could even close the space in between them.

Rand held his hands up in front of him as Fillmore frantically approached him. "She's doing fine, Cornelius," he told him, and Fillmore froze in disbelief. "They're hooking her up to a CPAP machine, but she should be back in her room shortly." Rand smiled softly at him, hoping it would help him relax if he knew that her own surgeon was in good spirits.

Fillmore struggled to catch his breath as confusion spun webs in his mind. _But, the nurse said she was going into surgery… shouldn't that take longer? What was wrong with her? Do we have to worry anymore?_ His mouth opened and shut silently, failing to say what was running through his mind. Should he be worried? Relieved? Angry? As his emotions continued to spin, he suddenly felt the need to hold onto something. He trudged over to the front desk and braced himself against the counter, his head hanging low. Rand followed close behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder as Fillmore ran one hand over his dry eyes.

"I don't know if her father told you about this, but she has a condition called blast lung," Rand explained, hoping that might help bring the boy peace. Fillmore looked over at him blankly. He vaguely remembered the words "blast" and "lung" used together, but he couldn't recall who said it or what it meant. "Think of your lungs as balloons—" Rand cupped his hands together in a ball, "—they're hollow cavities comprised of soft tissue, teetering between low pressure when you breathe in—" he spread his hands apart, "—and high pressure when you breathe out." He squeezed his hands together. "Now, what do you think happens when something like a brick wall crashes down on a balloon that's full of air?"

Fillmore's eyes widened. "It'll pop," he murmured in awe.

Rand nodded forlornly. "Which is essentially what happened when that blast wave threw Ingrid into that wall." Fillmore squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face to the counter, doing his best not to picture that. "The trauma to her lungs was so severe, we had kept her on a ventilator to breathe for her, so her body could focus on healing. But when she woke up with the tube still in place, she seemed to be trying to breathe on her own, so I prematurely removed it to prevent abnormal pressure exchanges."

Fillmore did a double take. " _Prematurely_?"

Rand nodded, somewhat shamefully. "Normally after a pneumothorax – a collapsed lung – patients stay on a ventilator between four to six days, but her body is working so hard to recover, I didn't want to risk counteracting its efforts and creating more problems. That was a risk I shouldn't have taken," he humbly explained. "We replaced the ventilator with a nasal cannula, but it wasn't providing enough concentrated oxygen to maintain equalized pressure in her lungs and, with how badly her lungs are bruised from the blast, bloody fluid started to build up in her lungs. We call that edema." Fillmore stared stoically at the starch white countertop, processing what the doctor was saying to him. From what he could tell, Rand was saying that he made a bad call, and Ingrid suffered for it. Fury bubbled in his chest.

"I know that you're scared," Rand started softly, thinking the boy was simply processing everything, but when Fillmore looked back up at him, he saw a dark rage brewing in the young man's eyes that shook him to the bone.

"That nurse said she needed surgery," Fillmore growled under his breath. "One minute, she's sleeping and stable, and the next she's coughing up blood onto my shirt and she needs _surgery._ I'm not scared, Rand, I'm _pissed._ " Rand held up a hand, wordlessly trying to keep Fillmore quiet as he started to raise his voice and looked around cautiously at all the closed doors for any sign of disturbed patients.

"Cornelius—"

Fillmore ignored him and wildly pointed somewhere behind him. "Forty-eight hours ago, a psychopath tried to fucking _blow her up_ —" Fillmore abruptly stepped towards him, now chest to chest with the surgeon who gawked at his sudden display of aggression, "—and while he's sitting nice and cozy in a cell somewhere, she's _still_ fighting for her life because you made a fucking _mistake?_ "

"Which we had prepared for and have _corrected!_ " Rand spat back at him. Fillmore stepped back in shock but, before he could retaliate, Rand continued, his voice slightly calmer, more authoritative. "I performed a bronchoscopy and suctioned all the blood and fluid from her lungs, and we're putting her on a CPAP machine, which is less risky than putting her back on a ventilator, and she is doing _fine,_ Cornelius."

Fillmore was speechless. He gaped at the man who saved Ingrid's life and, suddenly, wondered why he'd been yelling at him. He should be _thanking_ him for God's sake. But the doctor's words and his own thoughts and emotions bounced wildly around in his skull, the only words he could make out being, _she's doing fine._ But a part of him couldn't grasp it. After everything she'd been through, how could he know she was "fine"?

Rand's eyes softened as he watched Fillmore's grow vacant and confused, and he gripped him gently by the shoulders. He felt the need to repeat to him: "She's doing just fine," he started as Fillmore blinked back tears.

"She is?" he whispered.

Rand nodded enthusiastically with a soft smile. "And she's been asking for you."

Fillmore's jaw dropped almost as fast as his heart. "She's _awake?_ " he asked, not caring how his voice broke.

"Yes, bronchoscopies are usually performed on conscious patients." Rand looked at his watch. "I gave her a small dose of an anesthetic to keep her drowsy and numb to ease her pain and anxiety, but she was asking for you when I left." The elevator dinged behind them. They both turned, and Fillmore breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her. She was lying partially on her right side, slightly off-centered on the bed. She'd curled in on herself as comfortably as she could with a machine wrapped around her head, a mask covering her nose, and her left arm still slung to her chest. A man and a woman were on either side of her and guided her bed out into the corridor.

A mixture of relief and anguish flooded through Fillmore, settling uneasily in his chest as they pushed her closer. "Ingrid," he whispered and took a step towards her, but Rand grabbed his wrist gently to stop him.

"Let them get her in first," he ordered calmly. Fillmore bit his lip, but held himself back, despite how desperately he wanted to be by her side again. "I take it you called her family?"

But, Fillmore didn't answer him. The two nurses wheeled Ingrid past him, just out of his reach. Her eyes were barely open, but he saw them flutter, and she struggled to lift her hand, as if she were waiting for him to grab onto it. _God_ , that was all he wanted to do. Rand said his name again, prompting him to answer, but Fillmore shrugged.

"They didn't answer," he replied flatly, his eyes fixated on Ingrid's bed as they disappeared into her room.

"All right, I'll give them another call soon." Rand jerked his head towards her room, silently giving Fillmore permission to follow him, which he did in earnest. "How's she doing?" Rand asked.

"Her oxygenation is up…" the woman began, but her voice faded from Fillmore's ears as she locked the bed in place and stepped away towards Rand, clearing Fillmore's path to Ingrid's side. She stared vacantly in his direction as he approached, his heart pounding in his chest as his eyes fell to where her outstretched hand had fallen back onto the mattress _. She's okay…_ was all he could think as he reached for her and gently wrapped his hands around hers. Her fingers twitched in his as he brought them to his lips, and her eyes opened slightly wider in curiosity.

He smiled softly into her fingertips. "Hey, mama," he whispered, knowing full well she likely couldn't hear him, but she didn't need to. Her half-lidded eyes glistened as they registered his outline and she sighed contentedly, wordlessly breathing his name.

"She's doing much better already," Rand said, breaking the silence. "The morphine should be kicking in any minute now." Fillmore looked over at him standing at the foot of her bed where he hung her chart. The nurses were gone. Fillmore acknowledged him with a nod, and suddenly felt a pang of guilt ball in the pit of his stomach for yelling at him before. But, before he could say anything, Rand held up his hand. "You don't need to apologize," he told him, reading his expression like a book. In any other situation, Fillmore would've kicked himself for being so transparent, but he didn't have the energy. Rand walked over and placed a hand on Fillmore's shoulder, and continued, "You've been through hell the past few days, kid. You really should get some sleep."

Fillmore turned his attention back to Ingrid. Rest didn't matter to him. Only she did. "I'll sleep when she does," he told him.

Rand sighed, knowing there wasn't any amount of pushing the issue that could sway the boy. "I'll be back to check on her every hour," he said, squeezing Fillmore's shoulder before turning towards the door. "You know where the call button is."

Fillmore sighed. They were finally alone. Ingrid gasped as she tried to keep herself from crying – mostly from relief that he was standing beside her – and she whispered his name again. "I'm right here, Ingrid," he said, reaching up to brush some of her hair that had gotten trapped underneath the CPAP strap around her forehead.

"E-Everybody…" she trailed off to catch her breath. Her voice sounded so weak, which was so unfamiliar to him. He squeezed her hand tighter, somehow hoping he could give her some of his strength. "They-they're okay?"

Fillmore nodded. "Yeah, mama, no one else got hurt, I promise," he told her, knowing she'd kill him later for not being completely honest, but the mask of relief that appeared on her face was worth it.

"Really?" she asked tearfully, and he nodded again.

"Everyone's okay, baby girl." Tears formed at the corner of her eyes as she started to lean towards him. His heart ached to wrap his arms around her, and it only took him a moment to act on that impulse. He sat on the edge of her bed, halfway hanging off it, and dragged the chair over to brace himself on. He brought his arm above her and rested his hand on the top of her head, immediately stroking her hair and holding her free hand to his chest. "It's all gonna be okay," he told her as she sank into him, her muscles relaxing as the painkillers did their job. She was asleep moments later, but he continued to breathe her in, to stroke her hair, and, before he knew it, he was saying the same thing to himself.

 _It's all gonna be okay,_ he thought as his eyes closed. _We're gonna be okay._

 **xXxXx**

 **Thanks** _ **so**_ **much for following along with me, guys. I really appreciate your support! See you guys around, and I hope to hear from you!**

 **ellameno**


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